


Unholy Alliance

by Alexander_Wesker



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Dark!America, Dark!Italy, Dark!Russia, Future RusAme Alliance, Historical Hetalia, In later chapters - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of real historical events, North Italy and South Italy have merged into one fucked up personification, Political Alliances, Politics, Real Politics, Russia's issues have their own issues, Slow Burn, The 'Canon Divergence' is that in 2015 another guy won the elections, Trump didn't become president but the guy that did was even worse than him, Violence, headcanons, lots of headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:42:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Wesker/pseuds/Alexander_Wesker
Summary: They wondered what was happening between America and Russia. They had wondered but had not found an answer. The world could survive a new Cold War but the two of them working together?No, the world could never be ready.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 140





	1. A request between 'friends'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rexmin203](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rexmin203/gifts), [Drewyth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drewyth/gifts).



> Little notice before the story even starts, none the things said by the characters in this story is indicative of my political beliefs, this is just a work of fantasy. So please don't get offended.  
> I've been working on this story since 2008, but then as life happened I kept re-writing things to keep it as realistic as I could. Stopped writing in like 2012 then restarted and after 2014 with the events in Crimea, I just decided to stop re-working in real life events or I'd never complete this fic, so apart from Trump that didn't got to be president in this story instead having an OC guy becoming the president, things follow real life until 2014 after that everything is different.
> 
> Dedicated to my friend Rexmin203 for having listened to me all the while I wrote, and to Drewyth for having brought me back into Hetalia with his story Drawing Dead which you should absolutely check out if you haven't already.

It is a well-known fact that after the consequences of the 1915 Pact of London, all nations had unanimously accepted that secret pacts, treaties, or agreements were not to be accepted. That is, if one of their heads of state proposed to the personification of their nation to enter a secret alliance, the response of the aforementioned nation had to be a stark: ' _No_ ', of the kind that if it had been in writing should have been in bold, underlined twice and with capitalized letters.  
And for better or worse, the nations and their  corresponding Heads of State had respected the decision to the best of their ability.  Of course, there had been secret alliances, but none of them had a treaty signed in secret behind them, basically no one could have taken the blame for those alliances that could be dissolved as easily as the wind changed direction.  
But just because it hadn't been done, it didn't mean that  _it would have never been done again_ .  


* * *

  
  
"Russia!"  
America greeted him  at the door  with a smile bright as the sun shining in the sky at that moment, before stepping aside so he could enter. "I'm so glad you were able to accept my invitation!"  
The aforementioned invitation had been a message sent to his private number at almost the wrong time, and by this Russia meant that if he hadn't been talking to his cat, Sputnik, he would have been asleep when the message arrived. And for… he didn't know exactly what reason, since he and the American weren't in the best of terms, he accepted.  
For this reason, he was now in America, to meet the other personification under the official claim of: ' _bringing the two Superpowers closer together_ ', when to tell the truth it was nothing more than a social encounter between the two personifications, or like America, had eloquently put in his message was simply ' _hanging out_ '.  
Despite this, and despite the fact that it was the American who had taken the first step, or perhaps because of it, Russia was suspicious. Not that he thought America had any plans to hurt him while he was in his house - _America didn't want a war_ _just as_ _he did_ \- but he didn't think for a second that there wasn't any second end in this ‘ _meeting_ '. And not knowing what it was bothered him to no end.  
  
"Not that I could refuse,  _Amerika_ ," Russia said after entering.  
  
America looked confused at his clarification, hesitating to close the door behind him. "Uh,  _what_ ? You totally could. In  fact  I expected it. "  
  
The Russian gave him a skeptical look. 

"I'm serious. You could have refused. " The confusion on the face of the younger nation had been completely replaced by an unusual air of seriousness that clashed with the more superficial attitude that was his usual. " _Really_ . It is only a personal encounter, not a state affair. You could have refused without any problem. "  
  
"Do you want to tell me that you would have accepted a ' _No_ ',  _Amerika_ ?"

  
Russia knew that provoking America like that, while he was in  his house, was not the best thing to do, but at the same time the brief flash of cold anger that passed in the other's eyes, the blue of the sky becoming that of ice, even if only for a moment, was a more than satisfying reward.  
  
" _Yes_ . " America answered, his tone as  neat  as a cut and as sharp as a knife.  
  
Russia stifled a smile as he saw how close the  _other America_ still was to the surface, how fragile and precarious the  _persona_ he was hiding behind was, how difficult it was for America to keep him under control.  
  
America took a breath. "As I said, this meeting is not official, you can leave _if you want_ ." he said, closing the door, contradicting his own words with his actions. Clearly ' _leaving_ ' was no longer a viable option, the other nation would not accept a refusal now.  
  
Russia pretended not to notice the meaning of the gesture, preferring instead to ease the tension that had been created, replying with: “I took a ten-hour flight to get here. Leaving without knowing why you wanted to meet me is out of the question. "  
  
Like ice in the sun, the coldness and authority of the  _other America_ melted at those words.  
  
"Great!" he said emphatically "Because I have a lot of things I wanted to talk to you about. But, let's talk about it in the living room, okay? "  
  
The Russian nodded. Still suspicious of the other nation's intentions but also intrigued by his behavior. America motioned for him to follow him.  
  
  
Russia had never been to this particular residence of America, too close to his heart, too many memories for the American to, in the past, accept his presence there. The residence was too large to be simply called a house and, to be fair, dispersive. Russia didn’t have the slightest doubt that if he were alone, it would have taken him more than a few moments to find the right path.  
And the style that permeated it was in opposition to everything that the American would have preferred, it was too sober and elegant. It seemed… _too neat,_ picture perfect like a photo on a magazine than a real, lived in home. Everything was clean and in perfect order, the corridors lit by the large windows and heated by the sun, but it was still… _cold_. It lacked something that would make it feel like a home, instead of a house.  
In a way it reminded him of his home, large and _empty_. Too big for a single person, empty as if it were made to host others, _a family that had gone away leaving him alone, without regard for him and what he had done for them_...  
  
  
"Russia, dude, are you listening to me?" America's voice brought him back to reality, snatching him from the downward spiral in which his thoughts were turning.  
  
" _Nyet_ , force of habit I'm afraid," replied seraphic with his usual sweet smile on his lips, once he regained his contact with reality.  
  
Instead of taking offense, as he normally would, America laughed sarcastically at the comment but with an amused smile on his face. His  laugh fading into an echo in the  _empty_ corridor.  
  
"Good to know, at least now I know why you never have questions for my  presentations ." the American said, although there was no bite behind his words, his tone was almost joking. "Anyway, I said we have arrived."  
  
The ' _living room_ ' looked more like the parlor of a British villa than anything that could be defined as a living room, but the Russian did not comment. Instead, following America inside, briefly analyzing what was around him, looking for a sign of something that could have given him a clue to understand what the other nation wanted. He found nothing. But what he noticed instead was that like the rest of the residence, this room too gave him the same impression of _too perfect_ , everything was tidy, as if it had been put in order for an exhibition.  
  
_It was strange_ .  


All the details he was noticing painted a situation that... _was extremely familiar to him_. A picture of loneliness that didn’t match at all with the idea he had of America.  
He had always imagined that a sunny and friendly nation like America was always surrounded by his friends, that he didn't know what it meant to be… _completely alone_.  
Instead...  
  
"Medeira?" America asked.  
  
That question, in its total normalcy, brought to his mind a bittersweet memory of something that had happened centuries ago with the same nation he was facing now, but much younger, with only the weight of his revolution on his shoulders and the white innocence of freshly fallen snow.  
Pushing away the remnants of the memory, Russia agreed.  
  
America went to a globe in one of the corners of the parlor, after beckoning him to: ' _sit where he wanted_ ', taking two glasses from a nearby decorated cabinet and the bottle of Madeira, still protected by the traditional wicker case from inside the globe. "I keep it aside for special occasions," he said, returning to him before putting the glasses down on the small table in front of the armchair that Russia had chosen. "Although this reminds me..." a small pause, a smirk bent America's lips as he poured an equal amount of sweet wine into the two glasses "Have I ever reimbursed you for that lock I _accidentally_ smashed?"  
  
Russia turned a decidedly unimpressed look to the other, underlining everything with the slight arch of an eyebrow. "Two centuries _Amerika_." he said instead of answering, a bit exasperated "And no, you didn't."  
  
The American for his part had at least the decency to seem embarrassed, and partly surprised, by his response. " _Really_? I swear I was convinced I did,” he said, placing the bottle in the exact center of the table and taking his seat.  
  
“As I said, two centuries, America. I don't blame you, England was definitely unbearable at the time," refuted Russia, waving his hand in a careless gesture as if to say: ' _no problem_ ', before taking one of the glasses that America had filled, the other nation who did the same.  
  
"As if Iggy has ever stopped being unbearable."  
  
The two superpowers exchanged smiles. And although Russia didn’t suspect that the American was stupid enough to try anything against him, and cunning enough to do so, he waited for America to take a sip of the wine first before doing the same, once he was sure that ' _yes, it was alright_ '.  
  
For a few moments there was a comfortable silence between the two nations. The tension that had been present calming down if only slightly.  
" _Tak, Amerika_ , what did you want to talk to me about?" Russia asked, breaking the silence. The crystal glass still in his hands.  
  
America's smile faded slightly, that unusual shadow of seriousness returning to his face. He placed the glass on the coffee table, closer to the side facing his seat than near the bottle. "It is... a bit _complicated_ to tell the truth."  
  
Russia met America's gaze.  
  
"I mean it's nothing... _serious_." The American said, although the pause before saying that last word dripped of hesitation. As if he were minimizing the problem, instead of presenting it in all its complexity.  
  
Suddenly, America’s request for a simple ' _hang out_ ' seemed more like a request for a meeting away from their own governments than something as innocent as friendly date.  
  
Any trace of relaxation left the posture of the Slavic nation, the calm brought by the reminiscence of their past friendship completely disappeared, the violet gaze sharp and violent. Kamchatka, his scarf, tails unnaturally suspended in midair. Everything in the newfound vigilance of the other nation seemed to exhort: ' _America, explain yourself._ Now'.  
  
America didn't stir under his cold gaze, he didn't even blink at the sudden change of attitude or at the semi-sentient movement of the other's scarf.  
America had never shivered under his gaze. Never succumbed under his inflexibility.  
Russia knew this would never change. It was a fact.  
  
_Russia was the push, the unstoppable force.  
America was the brake, the immovable obstacle._  


They were two equal and opposite forces that moved towards each other, interacting in an unstable equilibrium.  
Even if Kamchatka had moved, circling, coiling around the other's neck, America wouldn’t have reacted, knowing exactly what to do to free himself from its coils. But that was fine.  
If America was calm, this meant that the situation was not as bad as his near hesitation had suggested, it meant that he had a plan.  
  
"My _president_ -" America spat out that title with such a hatred that, despite the tension between them, it surprised the Russian. "- he is a  _supremacist_ , racist, without a trace of diplomatic ability and an even worse sense in economics.  He is driving me down, Russia.  He is ruining everything, my people,  _my children_ , they’ve started to hate me…. He's destroying everything I've fought for,  _Ivan_ . " his voice was thick with emotion.  
But it was not the use of his human name that shocked Russia, what shocked the nation was the cold feeling, the dark presentiment that arose in his mind.  
There was nothing in America's words that could justify such a reaction. But they weren't his words, not exactly.  
It was what America wanted, what he was about to propose.  
There was a reason why he had said his human name, he wanted to remind him of something, it was a clue.  
  
A faded phrase, which had been listened to casually, with only a slight surprise. Because it had been strange, abnormal. But not dangerous, _not yet_ even if it had the potential.  
' _... alongside our president will be the youngest vice president in American history, Alfred F. Jones._ '  
  
“I won't let him. No. He won't, he won't ruin everything. " America continued. And now that he knew what to look for, Russia could see the fractures, the web crack that spread into the psyche of the other nation. After all, they weren't meant to run their own land… _that's why they had human leaders_. “But I can't alone. Not if I want to sort things out. "  
  
Russia should have stopped him.  
_Really he should have_.  
But… A smile curled the lips of the Slavic nation. Then he would have been hypocritical when in fact he was trying to do the same thing.  
  
“A favor for a favor, _Amerika_. I will help you but you will have to do something for me, _da_? "  
  
Their eyes chained to each other. Blue into purple.  
  
" _Anything, Ivan._ " America answered without hesitation.  
  
Russia moved the glass in his hands so that he could hold it with only one. The other stretched in the direction of the American.  
  
"If it's so. _Consider it done, Alfred_. "  
  
America accepted his handshake, and once it was dissolved. Russia put the glass down on the coffee table.  
  
The crystal marked by long thin cracks, yet intact. The reflection of the light distorted on the marked surface.


	2. The President

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russia keeps his end of their deal, America gets what he wants.  
> Control over his own country.  
> This... is just the _beginning_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I wanted to actually post a chapter a week but I'm so exited in sharing this story with you guys that I couldn't wait not even a day longer... so here is the secont chapter.  
> The third chapter will be out in like four-five days from now.

In the event of the sudden death of a President during  their  term, the Office is, to avoid a power vacuum, passed to the direct successor in the presidential succession line. This is usually represented by the  Vice-President, who will remain in office until the end of the term of the  President from whom  they  take the place of.  
  


* * *

  
  
America had always hated the feeling of the death of one of his  Presidents, the pain that gripped his chest, his heart literally skipping beats.  Stopping into his chest as if it stopped beating along with theirs.  
He hated the cold that took possession of his body for those moments. Until Washington started beating again, throbbing convulsively as if it suddenly wanted to run away, as Moscow sometimes did with Russia. Only once Washington had nearly 'escaped', during the assassination of J. F. Kennedy, and America had literally had to push his heart back into place, in  front  of the shocked gaze of his escort.

_The blood stain left on his shirt by that event had never disappeared._

Alfred had burned that shirt. With vision clouded by tears and the weight of lead in his skull as if he were the one  that had  been shot.  
The metallic taste of the blood had remained in his mouth for months, until one day he found himself spitting out a 6.5 × 52mm Carcano bullet, wondering if Oswald had managed to shoot him too in the confusion created after the first shot.  
But that had happened years ago, even if it had been one of the most traumatic experiences he had lived regarding the death of one of his  President, even with Lincoln, for whom the situation had been similar, it had not been so...  _traumatic_ for him.  
  
This time, however, when he felt that indicative  and familiar pang in his chest, he smiled. Putting a hand on his heart, at the moment, still, preparing for Washington's reaction.  
Smiling even with the cold that was spreading in his body like oil on water.  
And he was still smiling when Washington began to beat, fast, hard, close enough to the surface that he could feel the movement directly under his palm, his blood starting to move again. The cold that gave way to new  warmth.  
  
Alfred knew he should thank  _Russia for this. For freeing him._   
  
His vision blurred. And a pang of pain so intense that it cut off his breath tore him from any consideration of gratitude.  
The new  warmth that had revived his body flowing away again.  
And pain, so much, so much pain. As if he was being stabbed in the chest again and again.

The pungent, metallic taste of copper gathering in his mouth.  
America spat out a mouthful of blood, forcing himself to remain calm, forcing his breathing to remain constant even as his lungs protested, even as his heart was beating wildly, only increasing the volume of blood that collected in his throat.  
  
_Alfred was grateful to Russia, but nothing would stop him from breaking his nose with a punch the first time he saw him._   
  
Once he made sure that his body had recovered from the shock of his  President's death, and that  it no longer wanted to relive how he  had died, America wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, the previously white cotton dyed with a large smudged red spot.  
And knowing how sneaky Russia was, having experienced it first-hand, and knowing his President, America didn't even have to think long before understanding what the Russian had done to keep his promise.  
_Warfarin overdose_. An anticoagulant drug prescribed to those with atrial fibrillation to avoid stroke, and which was lethal in high dosages. And that was among the prescriptions of his current - _well, now former_ \- President.  
Nobody would have thought of an assassination; It would have passed as a simple but unfortunate accident.  
  
It had been a smart move by the other nation.

The perfect way to take action and remain completely unnoticed.  
Although it was not a good experience for the other. But  it was expected,  _death was never a good experience_.  
  
Rising to his feet, from the almost crouching position into which he had fallen due to the unexpected  sharp pain he had felt, America grimaced in disgust at the large stain of dark blood on the floor.  
He was grateful that it was in his office and not in other rooms, the blood was easier to clean off the parquet than the rugs, or the various linoleum that made up or covered the floors in the other rooms.  
With a sigh and a still disgusted expression, the American left the office and headed for a nearby closet, which was actually the size of a small room and which contained cleaning supplies neatly stowed on the shelves, and with a tap and a suspended sink, in concrete,  fixed on one of the walls. He came out of the closet with a mop and a bucket  filled with  hot soapy water. And  gone  back in his office, he began to clean.  
Mentally thanking Russia for what he had done for him and, at the same time, muttering some insults against the other nation for how painful the option he had chosen was, as well as annoying. America didn't like blood, especially not on the floor in his house.  
  
After finishing cleaning, and putting the mop and bucket back in the closet, the nation returned to his office. Partly waiting for the call from the Council that would have informed him of the ' _terrible news_ ', partly to find out what Russia had sent him, in a package that had arrived about an hour ago.  
  
The package in question contained another box which in turn contained something in a rectangular container that was wrapped in glossy black paper and which was currently on his desk in red sapwood.  
America sat in the chair behind the desk and took the object, checking it carefully, although he didn't expect any dirty tricks from the other superpower, but his caution was stronger than his belief.  
Seeing nothing suspicious, he opened the wrapping, surprised to notice that, for some reason, Russia had preferred to make a Japanese-style wrapping, that is, secured by the way it had been folded rather than by something else. What was revealed by unwrapping the object was a rectangular hard leather case, on which there was a small note folded in half that America took and placed on the desk, at the moment too curious about what was in the case to read the note.  
Inside the leather container was a bottle, the cap sealed with wax, which explained why in the container there were also a tiny hammer probably to break the seal and a brush to brush the broken wax off the cap, with silver labels around the neck and body of the bottle, both labels had something written in Cyrillic. On the larger one, that circled the body of the bottle, was a silver beluga.  
America looked at the gift from Russia and a smirk curled his lips.

  
_Vodka_.

Russia had sent him a bottle of vodka.  
  
_Beluga Gold Line._   
One of the most prized brands, too, if America remembered correctly.  
  
The nation put the hard case with the bottle on the desk and took the note and opened it. At first glance, nothing seemed to be written on it, just a series of incomprehensible but precise wavy lines, and it took him a few moments to recognize those ' _wavy lines_ ' for what they were. Cyrillic cursive.  
Which was one of the worst cursive scripts America had ever had the misfortune to learn.  
  
' _Vodka and blood are not an unpleasant combination as you might think Amerika.  
Especially when it's real vodka and not your American imitation.  
And congratulations on the Presidency. ^J^_’  
  
Although he was slightly irritated by the joke at his expense and the dig at what he produced, America smiled once he read the note. Partly because of the smiley face written at the bottom, - really, who used emojis in anything other than a phone message?- and partly because it reminded him of when he and Russia had been ' _friends_ ', not that' _friends_ ' was the right word to define what they had been, they were less and more than just friends. But times had changed and their friendship had gone sour, becoming rivalry and then, almost, mutual hatred.  
  
America's gaze fell back on the note and then on the bottle of vodka. He remembered the reason for the gift. And his smile became slightly more pronounced.  
  
But things had changed again. _They were still changing_ , who knows what the outcome of this new transformation would be. Either way, it was comforting to know he had someone on his side. Someone who, he hoped, wouldn’t turn his back on him as the rest of the world would once the news of his government situation was released.  
  
In a way, if everything went as hoped, it would be him and Russia against the world.  
As Ivan himself promised him long ago, before the Germans sent that subversive socialist Lenin back to his homeland, before his ideas had begun to change the way Russia viewed the world. Before that bastard of Stalin.  
_Before the Cold War_.  
When he and Russia had hunted together alongside his Archduke, when they had crossed states, danced and smiled. Making promises under the starlight like teenagers in love.  
  
America's smile took a nostalgic tone and his gaze fell back on the note, he took it again, looking at those wavy words, as if they were more than they were.  
Keeping a promise made long ago.  
  
Or maybe...  
  
His gaze moved again along those lines before he came to that smiley face scribbled on the bottom of the note.  
  
_Maybe they were an answer_.  
A reply to letters that he believed Ivan had never read or received.  
An answer that was not in the words contained in the note but in the light and playful tone they had. In that ' _congratulations_ ' that seemed to be said with a light heart.  
Or maybe America was reading too much in that gesture.  
Whatever the case, at least, for the first time in a long while, he no longer felt alone.  
  
The phone in his office rang, pulling him out of his considerations. America placed the note on his desk and took the call.  
  
And when he was told the ' _terrible_ ' news. America did what he did best... he hid himself behind a mask and _lied_.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Russia didn't usually  check on  foreign or international channels, in fact he was quite happy with watching only national networks, but today was an exception.  
It had been nearly a week since he had kept his promise by assassinating America's President so the nation could take his place. However dangerous and not advisable it was as a step. It would have had fewer repercussions if the person replacing the president hadn't been America himself, but Russia was, for lack of a better term, _curious_.  
_How long would it take for America's sanity to be irreparably damaged? Before he began to feel the effects of his perversion of the natural order?_   
  
Russia changed the channel a couple more times looking for a reliable American news agency. While Sputnik remained curled up on his legs, purring.  
By the time he found it, the report on Vice-President Jones’s emergency presidency had already begun.  
America was already giving his speech. In front of him a crowd that, from the aerial shots, seemed immense. Certainly there were many more attendees than there had been during his former President's speech. And everyone seemed to be listening raptly to his words, even the reporters seemed to have no comments to make. 

That state of rapture and total enchantment was quite normal considering they were listening to the voice of their nation. It was as if they were hearing a siren's song harmonizing with the deepest desires of their heart. At this very moment America could have said anything,  he  could have even said  that he wanted to declare war on the world and the Americans would have listened to  him and  _even marched to certain death_.  
  
Russia had some personal experience with inciting his men, his children, to fight even through the impossible. To spur them on to battle even while they were dying and delusional… and  _win_ . Germany was one of the nations that could testify, having experienced it directly,  how unstoppable  the  Russian troops  were when  led by their own nation.  
A small smirk spread the lips of the Slavic nation, when a particular memory reappeared in his mind,  the perfect image of the shocked and terrified expression of  Germany’s children as Russia and his men marched covered by the greenish residue of chlorine gas, mouths covered in blood and eyes bloodshot and filled with rage, looking more like undead, unstoppable monsters than men. Sure, Russia had lost many men that day but…  _Germany had lost many more_.  
  
The nation was brought back to the present by a few persistent tugs at his scarf.  
  
“No, Sputnik. Let go of the scarf." he scolded, freeing his cat's paw from the scarf where  his claws had  got caught. Sputnik meowed in response as if bothered by his reprimand, got up and leapt off his legs, leaving the room stiff and with his tail raised.  
Russia sighed and rolled his eyes at his pet's behavior, before returning his attention to the report he was watching earlier.  
America's speech seemed to have reached its final stages.  
  
" _I thank you for your warm welcome and for your presence here today. I promise you that I will do my best to make sure that our beloved nation, that the United States of America return to its former glory. May it become a point of reference for other nations once again. May it return to what it has always been, homeland of Freedom and bulwark of Acceptance, so that every citizen of America can return to being proud of their homeland. I promise you._ "  
  
When America finished speaking, the crowd exploded into  a  deafening applause. The spell of the nation's voice seemed to  have  been broken and the reporters began their commentary, professional but frantic, their voices enlivened by something that seemed almost childish hope and enthusiasm.  
  
The report ended with a close-up of the new  President.  
And Russia, in spite of  himself, shuddered  in seeing the face of the other nation. For where his smile was as warm as the summer sun, his eyes sparkled cold, calculating.  
Those were the eyes of the America that Russia had _played_ with during the Cold War.  
  
_America had decided to start playing by_ _his_ _own rules and, unlike the others, Russia had no intention of being left behind_.


	3. International Emergency Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An emergency meeting of the UN is called to discuss of what is happening in America.

In the years following the two World Wars the meetings between the personifications of the nations had diminished to a negligible number, so much in fact that they could be counted on the fingers of one hand. It was now their human leaders who were more concerned with their national  affairs than the personifications themselves. And, to be honest, many of the older nations had taken advantage of it to have the opportunity to live an almost human life, free from the many worries of being a national spirit. But after the news of what had happened in America reached everyone...  
For the first time in years, the personifications were once again brought together.  
  


* * *

  
The situation they found themselves in was surreal to say the least, to tell the truth, because although there was no imminent possibility of conflict, the tension in the air was high. Dense of national presences that tried to prevail over the others.

England let his gaze wander around the room, all nations were seated around an oval table (unlike humans who usually gathered in  ample rooms with a central patio surrounded by semicircles of seats one for each participating nation), everyone waited for America that hadn't shown up yet. England's gaze shifted to the right side of the table, that of the East, with Russia sitting at the head– _with his sickly sweet and static smile and empty, icy eyes staring at everyone and no one_ – at his side the three Baltics– _Lithuania sat upright and confident; Estonia was moderately calm and occasionally went about adjusting his glasses; Latvia, on the other hand, seemed almost ill, too pale, his eyes dull and dead those of a nation facing the beginnings of a crisis_ – next to the Baltics, protected by them, was Ukraine – _which was throwing nervous glances in the direction of her brother, Russia_ –, Belarus was strangely absent, but if England remembered correctly, the girl was personally facing problems that concerned her nation (the British almost felt pity for the leader of Belarus, but only almost, after all he hated dictators). After the empty seat of Belarus, there were the Asians of which only China was present, as the head of the Asian family, the poor nation seemed almost exhausted by the attempt to continue to stay awake.  
On the left side of the table, that is to say that of the West (and where he himself sat), the situation was different... if possible even more tense. The seat at the head was empty (being America's), Canada was sitting in the next seat and although his pose was almost a reflection of Lithuania's, England could see some uncertainty in his lilac eyes. Germany sat after Canada and kept glancing at Italy sitting away from the German– _Germany and Italy had drifted apart in recent years, especially after Germany accused Italy of retracing the steps that led him to the Regime (and if there was something Italy hated it was when people named the Regime) and the Italian had yet to forgive the German for the tactless comment_ – France sitting between them, seemed distinctly disturbed by the air of hostility between the other two European nations.  
To be honest England was quite happy to have moved away from the Europeans, at least he no longer had to be a couple counselor for Italy and Germany, although he was sorry he no longer had a real excuse to visit some of his friends in a pseudo-official capacity. In fact, this was the first time he had seen them, in person, since the Brexit. 

The place after Italy was his, and on his immediate right was Spain. The Spaniard's gaze occasionally darted towards the door, but it mostly remained aimed at the shiny surface of the table, on his face there was no trace of his usual kind smile– _but it hadn't been there for a long time, in fact it had disappeared the day Romano had vanished, joined again to his twin shortly after the end of the Cold War_ – and in the place next to Spain, the one that had always been Romano's, sat Seborga, who despite being technically a micro-nation had taken his place among them after claimed the title of second descendant of the Roman Empire, now that Southern Italy no longer held it, the  micro- nation in question sat upright in  his chair,  his  emerald gaze fixed on the door of the meeting room.  
  
England's gaze moved across the hall again, noting for the first time that in addition to the place of Belarus there was also another empty place.

  
_Ah, Japan_ .

  
Poor, poor Japan this was the third decade in which America refused to invite him to an official meeting of nations. And while England understood the reasons for America's resentment, this was too important to let-  
  
"Sorry I'm late, my friends," America's voice tore England away from his thoughts . "But I had some trouble convincing my escort that I didn't need protection in a meeting of nations..." he explained, a slight frown darkened his smile, but it was delicate and faint and disappeared before it could be considered, really noteworthy to understand the mood of the other nation.  
  
"Not like you needed it anyway,  _da, Tovarish Amerika?_ " Said Russia seraphic, his  voice sweet and syrupy like condensed molasses. To everyone's surprise, however, America didn’t seem bothered by the Russian's words, in fact he smiled and replied:  
"Of course, but try to make it clear to humans," and then a little pause, another tiny frown that vanished immediately " _Tovarish_ ? I thought you were no longer a Communist, Russia. "

  
The response of the Slavic nation, as the air froze and sparkled with tension, was a smirk, a tiny rise  of the corner of his mouth. " _Da_ , true  _Amerika_ , but you know...  _old habits die hard_ ." he answered smoothly and yet… something seemed  _off_ in the way he pronounced those words. That admission didn’t sound true at all more of an amused, false response than something real.  
  
America seemed to contemplate the Russian's words for a moment before nodding and saying, "Yes, I guess they  do ."  
  
And to all the nations that listened to the exchange, no matter how innocent it was, it seem that they had lost something, since when America and Russia were on good enough terms that they didn't end up insulting each other after two words exchanged?

  
After those words, a tense silence fell in the room and America didn’t seem to intend to break it.  
  
"Congratulations on the presidency, America!" trilled Italy, breaking the silence but intensifying the tension, since it was difficult to say if he was sincere in his words or if he was making fun of the other nation. Since Italy and Romano had united and their personalities had mixed it was almost impossible to predict what Italy would do, in one moment he could be your best friend and the next your worst enemy, one moment  he was complimenting your government organization, in the other he was carefully studying how to destroy you, so it was really hard to tell if he was being sincere right now.

  
America seemed to consider his words as honest, in fact he gave a bright smile to the Mediterranean nation and was about to thank him when the voice of Germany, cold and tired, interrupted him before he even uttered a word.

  
"We're not here to congratulate him,  _Italien_ ," he said, and from the total exasperation, and slight irritation in his tone, it was obvious that the German hadn't meant that comment as something all nations should have heard.  
  
"Oh,  _really_ ? So, tell me, why are you here? " America asked, his tone seemed genuinely curious but his presence as a Superpower hung in the air, barely contained by the equally strong presence of the Slavic giant but then Russia wasn’t trying to ‘ _contain_ ’ America, chilling the breath in their lungs but it was too sudden to have been voluntary, probably just a response to the German's comment. 

Germany, for his part, courageous and diligent as ever, met the gaze of the transatlantic nation when he replied: “You know why we are here, America. A nation cannot rule their own land. What you did is against the rules. "  
  
“Oh, so rules are important now, huh, _Luddy_? You didn't seem to care that much during the Third Reich”; the German's attention snapped back to the Italian in hearing the poisonous tone that had been turned against him and he seemed almost hurt by the fact that Italy had decided to give a remark about that _very moment_ in his history.  
  
" _Italien_ , decades have passed, I am not-"  
  
“Sure, of course! If we talk about you, ' _decades have passed, I am not like that anymore_ ', huh? But if I try to take half a step to help my people, you know, the nation of which I am personification of, then suddenly I am back to being the Regime! " interrupted the Italian, his tone slightly higher and hissing, angry as they had rarely heard Italy's voice become. France, which was between the two conflicting nations, stepped back even though still sitting on the chair so as not to be in the middle of the ' _line of fire_ ' of the two.  
  
Russia– _and America_ –, England noted, seemed to be amused by the verbal confrontation that was unfolding before their eyes. The Russian had even hidden the lower half of his face in his scarf so as not to show the amused smile on his lips, even if the emotion was evident in his violet eyes.  
  
“Your new Prime Minister is pro-fascist! So don't come and tell me you're just helping your people, _Italien_! "  
  
"Firstly, I don’t have a Prime Minister, you should know that, _kraut_ ” the Italian started voice still angry even as he gestured theatrically making a ‘ _one_ ’ sign with his gloved right hand. “I have a President of the Council of Ministers and secondly,” he made a ‘ _two_ ’ sign with his hand “, so what?" Italy replied lightly, his amber, more of a fiery orange than amber really, gaze striking the nation in front of him. "Like you can talk, your nationalist party has thirty-five percent of vote, does that mean you're going back to being the Reich?"  
  
Germany widened his eyes at the poisonous accusation of the Italian. "No, _of course not_!" was his offended exclamation.  
  
“So why should it be any different to me, hm? Because if you have the nationalist party almost in command, that's fine, but if I have a pro-fascist I'm going back to being the Regime, hm?! "  
  
"I said it once, _Italien_. One time! I was wrong, okay?.. But now we have more important things to worry about than the fact that I offended your delicate sensibilities! "  
  
An audible and exaggerated offended gasp came from the Italian nation, which had just opened wide his eyes and which seemed about to launch himself against Germany and try to strangle him with the decorative cords of his uniform. " _My_ -!" he repeated in an offended exclamation, interrupting himself with: "I'll show you, _how delicate my sensibilities are_ , you bastard kraut!"  
  
The quarrel– _and possible future conflict if things continued_ –between Germany and Italy was interrupted by Seborga. The micro-nation, in fact, at some point during the discussion between the two had got up from his seat and started walking towards the two quarreling nations.  
  
"It's okay, Ro '," Seborga said, his voice quiet and calm, as if his brother wasn't about to start a war over a small offense. While he placed his hands on the shoulders of the Italian nation, which, at that exact moment, seemed to be about to jump from his chair and attack the German, at the touch of his brother, however, part of the aggression in his posture calmed down. “Here it is... See, there's no reason to be so angry, hm? You know Germany hasn't gotten used to the new you yet, I'm sure he didn't want to offend you. " he added.  
  
Italy took a small breath, his national presence receding if only a bit, still present but no longer a roaring inferno of rage. "Ve, you're right Toni." conceded the nation, – _France, and Spain, breathed a sigh of relief at the easing of the immediate tensions between Italy and Germany_ – "This does not mean that I forgive you for the comment, Germany" he added throwing a glance at the German "But I'll let it go... _for the moment_ " 

The German recognized the nation's words with a nod, deciding to remain silent.  
  
Seborga and Italy shifted their gaze to the American Superpower which stared at them with a pinch of amusement.  
"Sorry for the scene, America," Italy said embarrassed, nervously running a hand through his hair and with a small apologetic smile on his face.  
  
“All is well, Italy. Don't worry, it has been a while since the situation between you and Germany was, well, _tense_... for lack of better terms, it was to be expected that it would turn out like this. But! Let's think on the bright side, things are resolved now, and nobody got hurt. " America answered smiling and calm. Solar as usual.  
  
And if, the way in which America liquidated the situation, in part angered England as he couldn’t believe that his former colony was still so blind in reading the situations and national auras of others, on the other hand it reassured him. Because this meant that America was the same America they knew, that despite the situation, even though he became President of himself, that didn't mean he was hiding anything.  
  
"Now that it's all settled." the American began "If you came here to ' _scold me_ ', don't worry. I know I shouldn't be in charge of myself, but, well, it's certainly not my fault if…” His voice trailed off, and the nations noticed a certain sadness darken his eyes. _America was always fond of_ _his_ _presidents_... “And he had wanted me to be vice-president, I certainly couldn't say no to him, right? And... now... _I'm the President_ , I know it's wrong but it won't last long I assure you, only until the end of the term. Two years, not one day more, not one less. "  
  
They all knew that America was always honest, _for heaven's sake_ , the boy couldn't lie even if he wanted to. England knew it well, after all, he had raised him. Russia was giving him a strange look, but England didn’t give particular weight to it, that Slav always looked at everyone in a strange way when he didn’t smile to disturb them.  
  
"So... um, if you have nothing more that you wanted to discuss... can we consider this meeting... _dissolved_?"  
  
Many of the nations at the table, including Russia, nodded in agreement with America's words.  
  
"Wait a moment." China said, still exhausted but far more attentive than he had seemed a few moments ago. “How do we make sure you will do as told? That you won't suddenly decide that you like to have all that power in your hands and that you don't want to let it go, hm? "  
  
For a single, faint moment, something cold shone in America's eyes at those words, but it disappeared the next moment. As if it were a mere reflection of the light, nothing really dangerous.  
  
"I guess you have to trust me." was America's answer, his gaze was soft and sweet just as his smile. It was difficult not to trust that tone and that expression, China narrowed his eyes but said nothing. "If there is nothing else..." America said, pausing between his words before continuing "Then I declare this United Nations emergency meeting concluded"

“Wait.” England spoke up, America’s eyes snapped on him, a faint trace of irritation in his face, so faint yet so noticeable like a crack on a porcelain mask.

“What is it now, Iggy?” America asked his smile just slightly more tight lipped than before, like the other was restraining himself from what… England didn’t know, but that unsettled him enough that he didn’t say a word about America calling him that stupid nickname. After only a moment before that strain left the expression of the other.

“You know that we can’t just meet for a day, America. And my government booked my return flight for the end of the week.” 

America said nothing, for some moments. A bit of an embarrassed blush on his face. “You are right, this once. Just this once. Well… I think we can find something to discuss in the mean time yeah? It’s not like we don’t have any arguments that could be better discussed between us nations.” 

The other nations around them nodded, though some sent England an irritated look, as if they had already imagined themselves on a flight home, happy to not have to waste time on ‘ _useless_ ’ meetings.

“Well, if there is nothing else you guys wanted to talk about… and this time I mean it, if you have something to say, say it now or _forever stay silent._ ” America smiled after saying that as if it was a joke, probably it was, but it had sounded almost too serious, or maybe it was just the fact that Russia had giggled – _an honest to God giggle… How could such a giant of a ‘man’ produce such a light sound was a mystery–_ at the joke that had made it sound more threatening that was meant to be. “Until the next meeting at least. So, if there is nothing else. I declare this meeting of the United Nations concluded… for the day.”   
  
The personifications began to rise once America did the same. Still slightly unsettled by that last joke, and maybe even by the fact that they hadn't received a real, answer to China's questions, though as they had more days to discuss about various topics, they could probably get some answer from America. _Hopefully_.  
  
"Ah, Russia." the nations stopped when they heard the name of the Slavic nation being called, unnatural silence falling between them, despite the fact that America's voice had been somewhat jovial. Not threatening at all.

  
" _Da, Amerika?_ "; the Russian turned to America, his sweet smile again visible.

"This is for... oh, you know for what this is for!" America exclaimed, his tone remaining jovial and, before anyone realized it was happening, the American threw a punch into the face of the other nation who surprised  as they were by the sudden action did nothing to stop him and despite the force of the blow  Russia didn’t move not even half a centimeter.  
  
"America! What the hell... - _America_ ?! " England yelled as he recovered from the shock, his voice worried and angry, but America had already left the hall when he did.  _So much for the fact that the two had appeared as if they had mended their disastrous relationship_.   
  
Russia stood motionless in the doorway, covering  his nose with one hand, blood seeping through his gloved fingers, dripping down his chin and eventually staining the whitish fabric of his scarf.  
The thing that froze all the nations still present, however, happened shortly after. When tilted  his head slightly forward, the nation pulled  his hand away from  his face. A smile curled his blood-stained lips, his shoulders shaking with a cold, amused chuckle that was worse than any other sound  he could have made  as a reaction to that punch.  
  
And then, Russia laughed.  
  
_And the whole world froze_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little notes/current history curiosities in this chapter: 
> 
> When Italy, or Romolo as I call him, told Germany about his ' _nationalist party has thirty-five percent_ ' he is refering to the NPD(Nationaldemocratic Party of Germany or, in German, Nationaldemokratische Partei Deutschlands) which is actually a neo-nazi party in Germany but that isn't recognized by the government as a real political party. Well the 'thirty-five percent' that Romolo is talking about comes from a printing error made by the italian newspaper Corriere della Sera in 2015, in which for an error of the printer and of those in charge of controlling it, the innocuous 3,5% of support in favor of the NPD became a worring 35%. The error was corrected within the day actually, but I thought that it would have made more sense, seeing Germany accusations, that Romolo would bring that up if it had been true.
> 
> About Italy's President of the Council of Ministers being a pro-fascist, it is actually based on a misconception that some had when he, Giuseppe Conte, declared to want Italy to return as politically united and strong at it had been in the last century... some people thought he was referring to the years of the Fascist period, when he was actually refering to the years soon after when the newly constitued Republic managed to unify the people of Italy(for how brief of a period that was... as the political instabilities started very early on...).


	4. Vodka and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just after the meeting, Russia has gone back to his hotel room. Ukraine, his sister, decides to confront him about a _certain_ something.

"I know it was you"  
  
Russia looked up from the  carpeted floor to the door of  his hotel room. Ukraine was standing in the newly opened threshold, he must have forgotten to close it when he returned and went to wipe the blood from his face. Still keeping his gaze on her, he took something from an inside pocket in his coat,  said something was  a silver flask with a 'hammer-and-sickle' stamped on it that had been scratched enough to have stripped off all the gold plating and marred the lines that outlined the contours, and after opening it, he took a sip of the vodka that was inside.  
Ukraine seemed close to looking down, unable to bear the intensity of his  gaze .

" _Sdelal chto, Iryna_ ?" he then asked, breaking the silence. His quiet, low tone, which revealed nothing.

  
  
Ukraine took a small breath, as if to calm down and entered  his room, closing the door behind her. "You know what I mean, Ivan."

  
  
“I have no idea what you are talking about. What are you accusing me of...  _this time?_ "

  
  
For a moment, Ukraine seemed hurt by his words, but that expression quickly faded from  her face as the European nation took step after step in  his direction, seeming to gather more courage with each step  she took. "I know it was you," she repeated "I don't know why you did it or what you think you will achieve by doing it, but I'm sure it's your fault."  
  
Russia continued to keep his gaze fixed on her, a small smile folded his lips. "I'm glad you're sure of something  _for once_ , but I still have no idea what you're talking about,  _moya dorogaya Iryna_ ."

  
The slap he received in response was expected, and, therefore, he remained completely impassive.

  
  
“Don't address me in that tone, Ivan. I'm your older sister. "

  
  
Russia grabbed the wrist of the hand with which she had slapped him and slowly got up from the chair, now she had to tilt her head backwards, to the point of straining her neck, to be able to meet his eyes. “ No, _Iryna_. ” He said succinctly “You stopped being my sister the moment you left me. As far as I'm concerned, Natalia is the only family I have, you are just a  _stranger_ who right now-” he tightened his grip around Ukraine's wrist, taking half a step forward" - is bothering me quite a bit.  _Speak clearly, Iryna_ . What are you accusing me of? "

Ukraine's eyes had  gotten a bit misty at those words, and the poor nation seemed close to tears. At that sight, Russia felt Moscow tighten in his chest along with the sudden desire to apologize, but he  persisted and kept his mask impassive.  
  
"You know it wasn't voluntary, Ivan..." the Ukrainian said miserably. "I would never have done it if I could have done otherwise... you are _my little brother,_ Ivan if-"

  
  
"I'm not interested in your pathetic excuses." he cut her off coldly, though he let go of her wrist as soon as she tried to free  it from his grip. "Tell me what you think I have done, Iryna. Tell me and then g _o away_ . "

  
  
Ukraine was silent for a few moments, fighting the tears and the knot that had tightened her throat at the cruel words of her brother. "I know"  she managed to force out,  her voice neither firm nor sure "I know you killed America's President..."

  
  
Russia showed no reaction to  her words other than raising an eyebrow, as if he found  the accusation absurd. “And why on earth would I have  done it , hm? If that bastard destroys himself, it  would be a pleasure for me to watch it happen . "

  
  
"You're not serious, Ivan"

  
  
“Oh, but I'm serious, Iryna. Indeed, if America dies, it would be the best day of my life. "

  
  
Ukraine started to approach, as if wanting to hold him in a hug, as she did when  he was still a small nation, but stopped herself, taking a step back instead. "What happened to you, Vanya?";  her low and soft voice, full of sadness.

  
  
Russia slightly tilted  his head to one side, like a curious  vulture , and then said: "Many things change in thirty years, Iryna."

  
  
The other nation opened  her mouth as if  she were going to say something but Russia silenced her by simply raising a hand.  
  
"If you only came to accuse me of... killing America’s President ," the Russian said, his tone tinged with slight amusement as he uttered those last words, as if he found the accusation so absurd it was almost amusing, were it not. that he was too bothered by it. “You can leave already. Indeed it is better for you,  _da_ ? Unless you want to speed up the reunification process between our nations, hm? "

  
  
"There will never be another Soviet Uni-!" Ukraine began, before she understood the full meaning of Russia’s words, once she realized it, the nation turned white and took a step back, shocked and horrified, mouth covered with a hand and a terrified look on her face, eyes wide with terror. “ _You wouldn't_ … you  wouldn’t , I'm your sister.  You wouldn’t ..."

  
  
Russia smiled, sweet as sugar and honey cold as ice,  his eyes as empty as those of a doll –a particularly realistic and well-made but still emotionless porcelain doll– " _Nyet_ , I wouldn't." she said and Ukraine seemed almost relieved by his words, if not intimidated by his expression. Russia took a step forward, Ukraine took a step back. "But you are not my sister, Iryna."  
Russia's arm outstretched,  his gloved hand could only brush her neck with the lightest of touches, before Ukraine turned and ran out of the room, tears shining in her eyes, and leaving the door open behind herself.  
  
Russia closed the door and, once, alone and sure that he was completely alone in his hotel room, the smile slipped from his face.  His heavy heart in his chest tormented by pangs of guilt and the disgust that made his stomach twist. Not for the first time in his life, he did curse that cruel streak of his disposition. He cursed the fact that he could not hold his tongue when he felt it boiling in his veins and, for a moment, he even hated his sister for believing blindly what  he was saying, the cruel tone in  his voice,  his words...  _his threats_ .

  
He rested his forehead against the cold surface of the door, involuntarily finding himself clenching his hands in fists, when a new flame of anger, against himself this time, ignited in his chest at the thought of the threat he had made to Ukraine…  _to his own sister! How could he have been so cruel to her?_

  
_Yes, he didn't want her to_ _realize_ _how true_ _her_ _allegations were, and he didn't want to keep talking about them... but…_

  
Russia walked away from the door, calming  his anger and guilt. It didn't make sense, he had done it now, it didn't make sense to mull over it when he couldn't do anything to change things...  _at the moment_ . When Ukraine returned to  his family, safe in  his home, under  his protection, Russia would apologize and let her know that he still loved her, but at the moment… t _here was no point in pining over a small mistake_ . In addition, he had managed to mislead her, to make her believe that  he had nothing to do with the death of  America’s President , so, really, it had been a success... even if he had pushed his hand a _little too hard_ .

  
Never mind, he would find a way to be forgiven when the Soviet family was reunited.

  
_Yes, when he and his family were together again._

  
A smile curled Russia's lips at the thought and this time it was sweet and warm, not cold and threatening.  
He would never feel the loneliness in his big _empty_ house...  , because it would never be empty, filled once more with life, and joy... and he would not allow any of them to leave him again, _never again_ . He would never be left alone, in his empty house, wandering through the corridors that  were too wide like a spirit in pain, the echo of his footsteps resounding, breaking the undisturbed and icy silence.

  
Like, now that he thought about it, like in America's house. He had felt the same emptiness there… and even with the warmth of the sun, America's house felt just as cold as  his .

  
He and America weren't as different as others thought they were, after all. They were both alone. Both were  _Superpowers_ .  
Everyone was afraid of them, although while they weren't afraid to have their say with America thanks to his act, which made him look like an innocent idiot, they were absolutely terrified of Russia. Sometimes he had the impression that if they could, they wouldn't even breathe in his direction.  
  
_But things were about to change_ .

  
Russia thought back to the  glacial look in America's eyes as he delivered his speech and the carefully  simulated pain in his eyes as he spoke of his President's death and, with clarity and a little hint of amusement, remembered the punch  he threw at him  at the end of the meeting.

  
The warmth dissipated from Russia’s smile, as he sat back down taking another swig of vodka from his flask, the Allie s’ innocent America was slowly lowering  his mask like a snake shedding its skin.  
Russia was looking forward to seeing  _his_ _America_ , the one  he had played with during the Cold War, introduce  himself  to the world.  _Oh, it would have been magnificent, almost epochal_ . And, he could almost imagine the fear that would capture others when they realized it, when they finally realized that the America they loved so much was nothing more than an intricate deception.

  
And, finally, he and America could  _play_ under the sun. Without having to hide from the gaze of others. No more clandestine  fights , with violence in  their blood and the awareness of not being able to let go completely, in hotel rooms, no more threats whispered as if they were intimate promises, no more unnecessarily complex encrypted messages or futile excuses to be able to meet.  
  
Soon, everyone would know  _his America_ , the real America and he would have his family back, nothing could get better.

  
Russia smiled to  himself , taking another sip of vodka, the metallic taste of blood still in his mouth mixing perfectly with that of vodka. For the first time in thirty years, Russia felt as if everything  he  wanted was finally within reach.  
  


* * *

  
  
America turned off the phone,  his personal  phone the one his ‘friends’ had the number of , and threw it on the bed.  
He was a phone call away from yelling at someone. And he couldn't, no sir, he wouldn't ruin what he had built up  unt i l now because the other personifications were  being annoying.

Yes, he had  thrown  a punch against Russia. And yes, to anyone who didn't know what had happened, it might seem like no reason.  _So_ ? Why should they make it a matter of state?

  
After all , if America knew Russia well, and he did, the other was not offended by his gesture, in fact he was probably amused, if not satisfied. Hell, the Russian was probably laughing about it right now.

  
While thinking about this, he ran a hand through his hair, separating the strands stuck by the gel, being careful not to touch Nantucket, he really didn't have time to deal with the  _kind of reactions_ that touching that tuft of hair caused him. Maybe later... if he had time to try to relax and release some frustration. But at the moment he had a nation to run, he had to solve the problems that that bastard of his previous  President had caused and they were...  _many, too many…_

  
How he had caused so many problems in two years of his mandate only Heaven knew, and now it was up to him to solve them. At least he had the support of his national children on his side.  
  
For the moment, he left the phone in his room and went to the office,  _it was time to get to work_ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation corner:  
> " _Sdelal chto,Iryna?_ ", means "to do what, Iryna?"  
> " _moya dorogaya Iryna_ ", means "My dear Iryna"


	5. Sunny smiles and Cold Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The week of meeting has already ended in nothing as usual.  
> Now America can focus on his own State... _he has so much to do_

_Scritch.  
  
Scratch.  
_   
The sound of the scratching of a pen against paper filled the Oval Office, quiet enough not to break the calm silence that was there. President Jones sat behind the Resolute desk, his gaze focused only on the documents in front of him, his glasses – _with non-graduated lenses_ – resting, closed, on the desk not far from a neat little stack of completed documents.  
  
In that large  Office , and given how large the majestic desk behind which he sat, and with his small stature compared to that of his predecessors, the new president looked almost like a child, but in his eyes there was a wisdom far beyond beyond the years he looked. His gaze moving between the printed lines with practiced speed, as if he had read hundreds of such documents, and indeed  _he had_ , hundreds didn’t even fall into the lowest numeral category to quantify how many he had read, but, despite the speed with which he read them, this didn’t mean that he didn’t pay attention to the content, on the contrary.  
  
The ' _scritch-scratch_ ' of the pen on the paper continued for a few more moments, before being interrupted by a voice, warm and confident, despite the interrogative inflection of the tone.  
"Did you call me, sir?"  
  
President Jones looked up from the document that held his attention at the moment, and as soon as it settled on the speaker, a warm smile, as bright as the rays coming through the studio windows, curled his lips.  
"Yes, I did it. We have a couple of things to talk about, Owen. " he said, his voice as warm as the smile on his face and friendly.  
  
Owen Olsen, Spokesperson of the United States of America or, rather, of their personification, gave a small nod. Resisting the little voice in his head telling him to stop thinking and follow, like a puppet would the voice of its puppeteer, the voice he was hearing. Resisting the voice of his nation had become much easier, even though it never seemed natural, as the years went by, to listen to his words for what they were and not for what he wanted them to be. Really hear what America was saying instead of hearing what he wanted him to say.  
  
"What did you want to talk to me about, sir?" he asked, as he sat in one of the armchairs on the other side of the Resolute (which were a new addition) after the invitation from the President. 

“First, you know you can still call me America, or even Alfred, since my human identity is public now, right, Owen? _It doesn’t_... The fact that I'm President now doesn't change anything. " the President said, his tone a bit uncertain. And for this Owen nodded before he had even finished speaking, to reassure the nation. The smile returned to America's lips. "Great." the personification then said cheerfully. "Then we can move on to the reason for your summoning" A small pause, America's smile didn’t leave his face, but a strange cold and serious note made its way into his eyes. "I need to change my escort." and in opposition with the smile on his face but not with the ice in his gaze, his tone was firm.

  
Owen was confused.

  
"Si-... America?" he said in fact, asking the other for an explanation.

  
“I know it's not normally your job to take care of this. But I need a new escort, the one I have now is… for a  _human_ .”Replied the nation.  
  
And Owen understood immediately. President Jones' current escort was the same as that of the...  _last_ ... President, who was as human as everyone  of the Presidents before him. So those men were not trained to interact with a personification, they  didn’t know how to resist the hypnosis of his voice.  _Oh, their poor nation!_ Owen knew how much America hated having so much power over them, over his national children, he must have felt so uncomfortable surrounded by people who would follow his tiniest word, with whom couldn't talk to without fear of ordering them something.  
  
“Sure, America. I'll take care of it immediately.” as he pronounced those words he began to draw up, in his mind, a list of candidates for the duty of escorting their nation among his agents of the PAIN section (Personnel Authorized to Interact with Nations). He needed his best agents, not only to resist the compulsion of their nation, as they would work closely with the personification, but also to excel in the rest of their training  fields . He would choose only the best of the best for their President and nation.  
  
“Thanks, Owen. I knew I could trust you,” said the nation, his tone had lost that note of detachment that had previously tinted it, returning warm and friendly, but that cold note  didn’t  leave his eyes. "Actually, I also called you for another matter... _I need help, Owen_ ." A little pause the smile of the nation that turned into an indefinable frown that the spokesman had never seen before. “I know that technically I have a whole entourage of people whose job is to help me, but trying to discuss my ideas with them is like bouncing a ball against a wall. Everything I say comes back to me  _identical_ . "  
  
And now, Owen could recognize that frown for what it was: frustration and annoyance. The Spokesperson could imagine that arguing with someone just to get a reflection of their  own  ideas in response would be frustrating over time.

  
“Owen,” he called the Nation and the Spokesperson made a small nod to indicate he was listening intently, “I want you to be my Advisor, personal, not in an official capacity. Like… how we have worked so far, yeah? Only the highest positions will know of your role change and I will inform the OWN immediately to report your new assignment to them. But only if you want to accept my proposal, it’s not like an…  _order_ or the like. "  
  
_And how could he refuse his nation?_ ; only casually did Owen realize that that exact line of thinking was the one he had been trained to notice and remove. But at that exact moment the Spokesperson didn’t remove the thought, agreeing to the new post, without a moment of reflection.  
  
The President's smile widened, though it didn't reach his cold, indifferent eyes. For a moment Owen found himself wondering if America's smile had ever reached his eyes or if they had always been so…  _empty_ . A feeling of slight discomfort began to build in him, suddenly the nation no longer seemed so comforting, as he had always seemed, no, the fact that he wasn't really human even though he looked like it was starting to be almost...  _disturbing_ , like seeing a robot that looked too much like a real human being even though it wasn’t. And then the nation thanked him, sweet and sunny, and that feeling of unease melted away, removed from his mind as if it had never appeared.  
  
"I knew I could count on you." Smiled the personification. And Owen felt a small smile curl his lips at those words. "And thanks for responding so promptly to the  summoning, Owen."  
  
"I would not have it to be otherwise, America"

The nation smiled and then dismissed him, saying that, for the moment, they had talked about everything there was to discuss and that he hoped that his new escort would arrive soon.  
With a nod and a ' _yes-sir_ ' Owen left the Oval Office, and then the White House, his only thought, to find the best escort for his nation in the shortest possible time.

* * *

  
America's smile faded as soon as Owen left the Office, emptying itself of the light and  warmth that had characterized it, remaining like a thin line that curved his lips, with no feeling behind. As if that slight smile was his default expression, as if he couldn’t stop smiling even though he didn’t have a reason to smile. The nation's blue eyes remained focused for a moment at the chair where the Spokesperson was not even moments before, then he looked away.  
  
Owen had been easy to ' _persuade_ ', despite his PAIN agent training, but ultimately that training only worked to the extent that a personification allowed, their national children couldn't really resist their voices if the nations didn't want them to.  
But America didn’t like to manipulate his national children, because when he did he deprived them of their freedom even if they didn’t realize it and, from the first moment America  could remember ... ' _freedom_ ' had been important to him, even before he knew what name to give it and how to say it in the language of his  _conquerors_ . So he found it unnatural to deprive his national children  of it , but… _he had to_ .

  
If he wanted to save himself from the fate of disappearing , of drowning under the waves of History as other, more ancient nations had done, and America didn’t want to disappear as the ancient Empires and more recently, Prussia, had done.

  
The nation's gaze fell on the documents, still unchecked, laid out on the desk but without really seeing them, his mind brought back to that day of February 1945, America had never seen a nation really die before and the sad smile on Prussia’ s white,  like paper, face, the blank look in his eyes –which for as long as America remembered had always been the red of blood but that day were dull with the brownish color of dried blood– as he disappeared into thin air, fading like an image on an old Polaroid,  those  were something he would never forget and he had no intention of ending up like him.

  
He had no intention of dying without doing anything to prevent it, especially when he had the ability and the means to prevent it. He would not give up, no, he would fight tooth and nail, or in this case with cunning and subterfuge, for his life... as Russia had done when his  _precious_ Soviet Union collapsed.  
The Russian giant hadn’t simply accepted to die, as all nations before him had done when they lost their power and identity. No, Russia had stood up and fought his predestined end until it became nothing more than a miserable, forgettable setback and this was what America aimed to do.  _Rise up, rebuild_ and… maybe,  _become even stronger than he was before_ .

  
The nation’s attention returned to the documents before his eyes. But first he had to figure out where his former president had made two million dollars go, because it was impossible that he had made them disappear.  
With a hint of bitterness, America realized that it would be a move that  his former president would  have been able to make,  _the shameless, arrogant bastard_ . Who knows if Russia was able to bring the dead back to life with that Slavic magic of his, if he  was  able to: America would have asked him for another favor. He wanted to kill the damned bastard with his hands. ' _How had he dared to do this? Betray their trust, take the title of President when he was only a selfish incompetent._ '

  
America clenched his fist around the pen, realizing it only when he felt the metal of its casing moan  and croak  under the pressure of his fingers, he immediately relaxed his grip. And focused his attention back on the documents, but before he started reading them again he took his glasses from his desk and put them on.  
Texas tended to have the bad habit of trying to disappear when he was angry. And he was...  _furious_ .  
After he was done with the documents he would go to his shooting range, he had to release some of this anger somehow or he would not be able to keep the clear and logical mind, he needed to make his whole plan work.

* * *

  
The sun was setting over Washington when America finally finished with the documents that had been brought to his desk. Apparently there were many holes in the State budget,  almost too many and most of them without a clear reason to exist , and the nation had yet to figure out how to fix them without increasing his State's debt. But, and America had some certainty, once he cleared his mind of the anger caused by discovering the deceptions of the inept bastard who had been his President, he would be able to find a solution.

  
For this reason the nation, whom thanks to his national privileges didn’t have to reside on the second floor of the White House –he would have found it strange, to rest where generations of his leaders had slept and lived –, had returned to his residence, the Whitethorn Manor, home built by England, in fact it was in the British style of the seventeenth century and whose name was a pun with the translation of the name Blackthorn in some of the Romance languages, though America didn’t remember which one exactly, maybe it was French or Spanish or maybe Italian, he couldn’t really remember. And he had set up one of the old living rooms –too big for someone who lived alone like him– in a personal indoor shooting range.  
  
_Shooting always helped him relax_.  
  
And he didn’t know if this was a direct consequence of the mentality of his citizens regarding weapons or, if on the contrary it was precisely because of this characteristic of his that his national children had the aforementioned mentality.  
  
Entering his personal shooting range, he first went to the adjoining room that he had used as an armory, inside there were enough firearms to make the head of any gun enthusiast, and even a historian spin, since there were also some of the oldest weapons he had personally used, all in excellent condition even if he hadn't used them in a long time. He glanced over his wall display between the various pistols and semi-automatic guns on display –since he didn't want to use a machine gun or anything that was automatic enough to take away the pleasure of having to pull the trigger for every shot– focusing on the various models –from an old German C-93, which he had not used for... at least a hundred years more or less, to the recent Ruger-57 which he hadn’t really tried yet apart from a few test shots, which was not, however, enough for getting a real idea of the gun– his gaze eventually fell to the chrome profile of his Desert Eagle Mark XIX, which he hadn't used in a while. After a few moments of indecision, also looking at all the other weapons, the nation decided to take the D. Eagle, which after some small checks he found out that he had to disassemble to replace the barrel, since, for the moment, he preferred to use the least, albeit still, destructive. 44 magnum than the .50 AE with which he had left it prefixed, and to substitute the magazine too.  
This done, after taking a box of .44 mag bullets, he returned to the firing range.  
  
He hadn't fired at his shooting range in a while, the nation thought, as he lined up the eight bullets on the clip to slide them into the D. Eagle's magazine, his old President didn't like when he did that, always telling him that he didn’t need to practice his shooting. He didn't know why, but he had listened to him, America always listened to his Presidents, and always did what they asked, they were his leaders after all and if his citizens trusted them enough to have them elected, so did the nation. Now, however, he couldn't help but think that his request was more the result of some selfish paranoia of that _man_ than something concrete.  
  
America slid the magazine in the Desert Eagle, cocking the hammer, and turned towards the targets, moving a few steps away from the table on which he had placed the box with the bullets, until he was at the right distance from the targets. Normally, if he had been somewhere else, with human spectators, he would have put on anti-noise earmuffs to avoid attracting attention, but here... while he was alone, he didn't need them.  
  
He pulled the trigger, the deafening sound of the shot filling the silence for a moment. And a little crooked smile curled the nation's lips.

  
America readjusted his position and pulled the trigger, on e , tw o , three times as fast as he could.  
The dull and explosive sound of gunfire filling his ears, recalling other moments in his life, when his aim and speed really mattered. It was…  _exhilarating_ .

  
_Although he would have preferred moving targets_ .

  
America could not understand why other, older, nations  didn’t like firearms, but perhaps the young nation simply could not understand it, he was 'born' with a musket in his hand s and burnt gunpowder that filled  his lungs. The others were born with swords and spears and bows, breathing air that smelled of iron and blood.

By the time he had become a nation, the era of great conquests was already fading, and from  his very first moment he had had to sharpen his mind, prepare to read the quibbles and subterfuges that other older nations were putting into their treaties. When he became a nation, there was nothing left to conquer, only to hear the stories of decaying empires that had done so and…  _his jealousy_ . He too wanted to have had the opportunity to find and make his own a new unexplored territory, he too wanted to feel the exaltation and euphoria of becoming a conqueror... but  _he had been denied_ _it_ .

  
The older nations belittled and despised him, underestimated him. He was still too young in their eyes, he was still a child. It was as if they had forgotten that England had held the world in his hands, had crushed it under the sole of his boots when his 'human' body looked like that of a young boy. Or that France had conquered almost all of Europe when he was still only a young nation.

  
All of them had done great things when they were still young…  _why didn't they give him the ability to do the same?!_

  
Not that he cared about their opinion. After all, they were no longer empires, the power they had crumbled away,  _gone_ . Now they were just small nations that controlled nothing more than their direct national territory, while he...  _he was a Superpower_ and had control, even if not declared as such, over almost everything. He was the  Empire now, even if the other nations still  didn’t  know it, and  he had no intention of letting power slip out of  his hands like sand  as the others had done .  
  
America pulled the trigger one more time, the last shot in the magazine.

  
Bullseye, in the objective that made up the target's head, or at least as close as possible to the perfect center with the fragmentation of the hollow point of .44 mag.

  
A smile curled his lips, but not one of the sunny ones, of those with which he deceived  the  others.

  
_But a_ _smile as cold as the_ _cruel_ _light that froze his eyes_ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The little pun with the Whitethorn manor that America is referring to is that in Italian the English word 'Blackthorn' is translated with 'Biancospino'(Whitethorn). And I found it curious that it gets translated this way.


	6. A Brother from the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canada is worried for America.   
> Meanwhile Russia takes care of his little sister as the big brother he is… _but he is really doing it just for her?_

Canada was… _worried_ about America.

  
Usually the other nation, which he considered to be like a brother, hid away in his home for a while after the death of one of his President, to mourn them. Almost as a human would have done even though his mourning periods were much shorter, as he was first and foremost a personification and, as such, he had to worry about an entire nation, and how his emotional state might affect it, sometimes in unexpected ways. But, this time, he hadn't, pushed into the spotlight as the new President.

  
_The youngest_ _President_ _in American history_ , or so the tabloids had  called to him, Canada had snorted and smiled at that definition. America  wasn’t young  by human standards, far from it, even if  he was young for national ones. But it wasn't what the tabloids or the media said that interested him. Those humans had such a  bland view of America that it almost bothered him, but he knew they couldn't understand what he was really going through.

  
No, what interested him was that his 'little brother' was alone, at a time when he needed support. For this reason, the Canadian had decided to visit him, to keep him company, give him some comfort and help him as much as he could, even if he  knew he couldn’t  help him in anything that concerned his State. Not that he thought America would ask him for help on that, he was too proud to do so –and nations generally tended not to ask for personal help concerning their States  to others, even if they regarded  those  others as their family –.

  
So he had warned his boss, the Prime Minister had been understanding as usual –perhaps also because Canada had used some of  his national voice on man to 'help' him in his decision. And if Canada would normally never do it, this was a special case, as he was really worried about America's well-being– he sent a message to America warning him that he was ' _going to_ _visit_ _him_ ' and got into the car. Reaching Washington at around four in the afternoon and Whitethorn Manor shortly after, as the residence was located just outside the capital. Once he reached the gates with the sinuous,  filled with metal swirls, railings typical of the Nouveau style that permeated the entire building since its reconstruction –which had been partly done  because of him –, he sent a message to his 'brother', the gates opened  just a  little later and Canada was able to continue with his  driving along the tree-lined  road that led to the actual residence.  
How America managed to keep everything so perfect, even if  he didn't want to hire  gardeners or garden keepers , was a mystery to the northern nation. But the other succeeded, apparently, without problems, just another one of his innumerable  _abilities_ .

  
Reaching the  forecourt in front of the entrance to the  Manor , he parked the car next to the... the Canadian stopped for a moment,  _was that a Lada Niva?_ The nation's gaze shifted to the 4x4, the slightly metallic black  paint , the tinted windows, the license plate replaced by the car manufacturer's logo, as was usual for the cars of the Nations. That…  was  _ Russia’s _ car .  _What was Russia's car doing parked in the forecourt of America's house?_ Especially after what America had done at the emergency meeting.

A thought flashed to the mind of the Canadian nation, who in response immediately got out of the car, his concern rising to extreme levels, and ran for the door.

  
Which was opened just before the Canadian could even try to open it.  
  
"Hey, Mattie!" America's cheerful greeting only partially calmed his concern. And the other nation seemed to realize his emotional state, maybe after seeing the emotion on his face, or maybe the one that oozed from his national presence– but America was... blind to the national presences of others so it was probably his expression– "Mattie, are you okay?"  
  
At the same time Canada said, "Alfred, are  _ you _ okay?"  
  
America looked at him almost perplexed, and a little annoyed by his lack of response. "Yeah, I’m alright. Well, as good as I can be while as a nation I replace my own boss... "a small pause, his gaze resting on Canada’s still-running car. “Why did you leave the car running, Mattie? I mean, I understand that you were anxious to see me again... but isn't that a bit too much? "  
  
"Alfred... why is Russia's car parked there? He's not here to threaten you,  _ ou _ _ i _ _? _ And if he is, you know you don't have to be scared to tell me,  _ I will help you _ \- "  
  
His words were interrupted abruptly by a sharp nod from the other who seemed offended, if not outraged, that he had insinuated that he needed help. “First: I don't need anyone's help, Mattie. Although thanks for the thought” America said, adding that last part almost as an afterthought, a way to soften the harshness of the previous sentence “Second: That Lada Niva, although similar to Russia’s, is mine, yes it is a gift from Russia. For my presidency. Yeah, it’s like he is trying to buy my favor with gifts.” he added, chuckling a bit. “But don't worry, I've already had it checked. There are no  _ bugs _ , no hidden cameras, no hidden explosives, not that I thought Russia was stupid enough to try to kill me. He doesn't want a war after all. " he explained, interrupting him once more with another nod even before he could get a word out. As if he expected those were the questions he wanted to ask him, but…  _ they weren't _ .

  
What he had thought of asking him was more along the lines of: ' _ Do you think this is a sign of good intentions? _ '; but instead America had thought of…  _ that _ . Canada's concern increased, America seemed to be returning to his more...  _ paranoid state _ , and the last time Canada had seen him 'get lost' in his paranoia was in the 1950s and then again after 9/11 and neither of those two periods had been easy for anyone. And the worst part was that this time no one could stop him if he decided to act on the basis of his paranoia since he was… the President of his own State.  
  
“Well, since now you know I'm safe, you can go and turn off the car, right, Mattie? Otherwise you will have trouble s in returning to Ottawa later "America's voice brought him back to reality, cheerful and sunny as usual, the dark shadow of seriousness disappeared from both his eyes and his smile, returning bright once again.  
  
"Hm? Oh,  _ oui _ . You're right, Al! " he answered a little too quickly, and as he turned for a moment he thought he saw America narrow his eyes, almost looking at him with suspicion. But Canada kept moving, trying to look as relaxed as possible. He had nothing to fear from his 'brother'. He turned off the car and took the container he had placed in the passenger seat. "I... brought you some bacon and maple syrup cookies..." he said, then, lifting the container to show it to America as he turned back to him.  
  
America's smile widened, warm and bright. "You know me so well, Mattie!"

  
And seeing that smile and hearing that tone, Canada's concern subsided. Perhaps he had simply read too much into America's behavior, he told himself, as America moved to let him in. The other nation must have been so tired and stressed at the moment, it was obvious that he wouldn’t have reacted as usual. 

It was he who had misunderstood his reactions and his words.  


* * *

Russia had never imagined that one day he would find himself in Minsk, Belarus’ Capital, running towards the office of the President of his younger sister, without having given any notice to the aforementioned State and without even a member of his UPVN agents ( _ Upolnomochennogo Personala Vzaimodeystviyu c Natsiyami _ (wh ich corresponded to the American PAINs)) who could verify his identity. But at the moment  _ he didn't care _ .

  
Not when Natalia had called him crying, sobbing: ' _ I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to do it _ ' on the phone, too lost in her shock to answer his questions.  
Two security agents, perhaps soldiers, perhaps the President's personal guard tried to stop him, to prevent him from entering the Office building, but with a quick and efficient movement he got rid of both... without killing them –even though he could have– because he didn’t want to do further harm to his poor little sister Natalia.

  
He entered the building and headed for where he knew the office of the Belarusian president was, getting there shortly after. The door was ajar and Russia entered without even announcing his presence.

  
Natalia, personification of Belarus, was there kneeling on the floor, her beautiful blue dress stained with blood. Russia felt a blind rage build up inside him, his heartbeat roaring and deafening. He would have found that lesser human being who had dared-

  
But before anger made him completely blind, he noticed the knife in Natalia's hands, and the corpse in front of her –which had been 'hidden' by the figure of the nation while he had been standing on the threshold of the room– which after a quick observation he realized that it, the corpse, was Natalia's new president.  
  
" _ Natalyushka _ ?" he called her softly, for a moment he feared that she hadn't heard him over her own sobs.  
Natalia turned to him, dropping the knife as soon as she recognized him, throwing herself at him and hugging him tightly, choking the rest of her tears against his coat.  
  
“I didn't want to, didn't want to,  _ Vanya _ . You have to believe me! "Sobbed her voice muffled against the thick cloth of his coat, hesitantly Russia returned the hug. His fury that disappeared replaced by worry and uncertainty, he didn't know how to console her…

  
_ He was good at making people cry, not at making them stop _ .  
  
“Hush,  _ Natalyushka _ . Hush. " he murmured softly, placing small caresses on her back to calm her.  
The two nations remained like this for a while, with Belarus sobbing in Russia’s clumsy but comforting embrace. The other nation gradually calmed down, her sobs becoming more sparse until it stopped altogether. "Natalyushka" Russia began "What happened?"  
  
Belarus looked up, her blue eyes red and shining with tears, she almost looked like she was going to cry again but then she replied: “I didn't want to, Vanya. But... but he, he wasn't like  _ Aleksandr _ ... he wanted to dissolve our alliance! He wanted to get me away from you!  _ From my only family _ ! I couldn't let him do it. "  
  
Russia made a small nod, preparing to say something to his dear little sister who was clearly upset about the event. A nation couldn’t kill their leaders without repercussions, it was well known. The murder of one of their leaders was already destabilizing enough, but if it was they themselves who killed them... then the destabilization could also become... lasting, almost eternal. Even the strongest nation became fragile, insecure, in need of support and attention. It was dangerous for a nation in this state to come into contact with another stronger one. And if Russia felt sincere brotherly affection for his little sister, he couldn't help but think that this was the perfect opportunity to take the first step in his personal plan. After all, it wasn’t as if he would have hurt Belarus, on the contrary he would have protected her.  
  
“And… and he threatened  _ Nikolai _ ! I promised Aleksandr that I would protect his son, I couldn't let the bastard break my promise.  _ Do you understand? _ ” The look that Natalia gave him as she said those words seemed desperate, as if she were begging him to understand her reasons, not to consider her the 'Rogue State’ that everyone believed she was.  
  
“Of course I understand,  _ Natalyushka _ . I would have done the same if I had been in your place.” he answered and if Natalia hadn’t been in the state she was in, she would have noticed that it was a lie. Russia had never gone against the his leaders, he had never even moved a hand against the consent of his people. Even if this meant letting a boy die,  a boy  who was, in his eyes, as innocent as  Y akov even though he knew he could  have save d him from the prison camp he  had  ended up in; even if that meant bringing the family he had regarded as  _ his family _ , into the room where they would be shot, massacred, slaughtered like animals even if they didn’t deserve it all the while telling them, lying to them, that they were moving them to protect them. Russia had never broken his Vow of personification. So no, he didn't understand Belarus's motives, but he knew that using those words, giving her the answer she wanted to hear was the best way to make her more inclined to accept what he was about to ask her.

  
"Natalia, I know this must be a difficult time for you." he began "But Nikolai is still too young to take the lead and with Stragov dead someone else will take power, someone who may not be... happy to know that his predecessor was killed by the personification of their  own  nation." at his words, Belarus, the normally combative, strong Belarus seemed to collapse on herself at those words, as if she wanted to cry again. "But I have a plan."  
  
"And... and what is it,  _ Vanya _ ?"  
  
“Come back to live with me, in my house. Not as an ally because that would leave the problem but as…” Russia paused for a moment, hesitating… but there were no other words for what he wanted to ask her to become. “But as my annexation, da? As we once were. And you won't have to worry about other 'bosses' trying to hurt you... or to hurt Nikolai…” he said, adding the child's name almost as an afterthought, to use him as an incentive to convince her.  
  
"Will you protect me and… and Nikolai, Vanya?"  
  
"Da, I promise, Belarus," he replied.  
  
And Belarus nodded, weakly, but she did. “Then, let's go… let's go  _ home _ , Russia. I'll sign everything I have to sign there. "  
  
Russia nodded. Partly hiding his face in his scarf to hide the smile that had curled his lips, his sister could very well believe it was a temporary solution... but it wasn't, he would never let her go again, he had already made this mistake once. He and Belarus began to walk, just outside the President’s office some agents met them, recognizing him only thanks to the new trust that their nation had given him. And nothing was more gratifying for the Slavic nation than barking at them the order to go and remove old Stragov's body and see them snap to attention before heading quickly to do what he had ordered them. Russia held back a satisfied chuckle. It was starting to feel like…the  _ old times _ .  
  
And so, while the nations didn’t look, too busy and worried about the situation that was developing in the star spangles Superpower. The Red Union took the first step towards its Rebirth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little curiosity: I decided to have Russia just call Natalia, 'Natalyushka' but in the original draft he called her also 'Natasha' and 'Natashenka', if you are curious on why, it's because of a little pieve of mine, where I call the people I love(as femily and friends) at least three or four nicknames while talking. But I decided for the sake of not confusing my readers to have Russia, call Natalia only 'Natalyshka'.


	7. Things go forward... just one problem at a time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russia’s temporary President as some things to discuss with the personification… the _Annexation of Belarus_ being the most important of them

_Ten hours._   
  
He had just taken a ten-hour flight in a government jet to ask his country for an explanation as to why he had acted so recklessly and hastily, especially when the situation didn't seem to require it, instead of waiting for the  Government’s permission. And why he was informed of the incident only three days later, when he could no longer do anything to change things without attracting even more unwanted attention from foreign powers.  
  
_Ten hours in a plane with five UPVNs watching him almost keeping an eye on him._   
Making him feel almost like a criminal being taken to Siberia to serve his sentence, instead of the President he was, albeit only temporarily until President Putin's recovery.  
  
Furthermore, Georgi could not help but wonder why the personification of Russia lived in such a remote and isolated place, since all the personifications he was aware of lived in locations close enough to their capital, if not directly within the city itself. But not Russia, which instead preferred to have his residence in a forgotten and unknown region, as well as perpetually frozen, of Siberia, in the absolute north of the region. A region that was mainly composed of Arctic deserts, where temperatures remained low and below zero throughout the year.

  
But those were not the things that bothered him, no, the thing that bothered him was what Siberia brought to mind, a family story in particular because after all, the last time a Morozov had set foot in Siberia, they had died in those snows, devoured and then abandoned like a slaughtered deer carcass. The only thing left to recognize their identity were their military dog tags.

  
The landing of the jet brought Georgi back to reality. A cold, involuntary shiver ran through the man who, however, decided to ignore that strange feeling, Russia would not harm him. He, however temporarily, was  his  President and the nations could not hurt their leaders, so he was safe. No matter how much his instincts... told him otherwise.

  
Before opening the tailgate, Georgi and the UPVNs put on their heavy fur coats, gloves and  _ushanki_ , and Georgi lifted the collar of his coat, he preferred not to freeze his ears to being seen as masculine. Once they were ready they opened the hatch, two UPVNs went out first, then he and finally the last three UPVNs.  
Ahead of them stretched a vast expanse of… nothing, just snow and ice and rocks, the wind howling and hissing, barely lifting the snow off the ground. But beyond the icy peaks –which were undoubtedly breathtaking– he saw nothing else... _where was the home of their nation?_   
Georgi was about to ask his... escort when one of them left his post and approached him.

" _Aleksandr_ _Dmitrievich, ser_ ," the agent introduced himself.  
  
Georgi gave a small acknowledgment nod and the agent continued.  
  
"I will escort you to  _Podsolnukhov Dvoretz, Gospodin Prezident_ , as per  _Rossiya Zimavich_ 's order," the agent said stiffly, the words leaving his mouth in a neutral, monotonous tone. Georgi nodded.

  
The four remaining agents positioned themselves in front of the jet almost in a row two on each side at the tailgate. Aleksandr Dmitirevich, after just one more nod, began to lead him into that vast expanse of nothingness. The agent moved confidently as if there was a road ahead of him instead of a flat expanse of snow, in which there didn't seem to be even a small difference to be considered a landmark, the whole journey was accomplished in silence, only the wind and the crunch of the snow to 'break' it, while Georgi felt his uncertainty grow with each step in that desolate land.  
  
Russia would never order his…  _execution, right_?  _Because even if he had been less… permissive towards the personification, compared to President Putin, this did not mean that the Nation… wanted to eliminate him, right? After all he had just tried to do his best in his position, he couldn't do anything about it if some of the things he had to do went against the direct interests of the personification... he surely... understood. He couldn't want him dead just because he had done his job_ -  
  
Georgi's pessimistic thoughts stopped at the sight that came before his eyes. In the distance, among the snow, stood a building, at least three floors high, the blue facade, almost turquoise, which stood out against the monochromatic background of whites and grays, the color broken only by some neoclassical columns tinted with an ashy white and gilded stucco decorations… or at least he thought it was colored stucco he couldn't be sure. The solid walls were interspersed with large windows ending in pointed arches, the glass panels covered with a patina of frost, as well as a large part of the gilded high-reliefs that decorated the walls.  
  
It… it wasn't what he expected from his silent and austere nation, which had always seemed to him to be stuck in the Spartan frugality of the Soviet period. Everything in the presence of that building exuded Tsarist opulence, from the style of the facade to the vivid colors and golden hints that decorated it. But as soon as they arrived in front of the door, a heavy double door of solid wood decorated with delicate carvings, the president noticed a detail that clashed with the Tsarist aura of the building and this detail was the two  two knockers of the door. Both modeled in the image of the Soviet coat of arms, the large hammer-and-sickle star, which had small imperfections as if someone had tried to hammer the hammer-and-sickle away but failed to make more than a few indentations on the otherwise immaculate star, surrounded by two bundles of wheat that had clear abrasions on them, as if something, probably the Soviet motto, had been filed away and no one had ever thought of browning the metal so as not to make the removal so evident,  a slight layer of frost enveloping the metal, making it sparkle .

  
Without even a moment of hesitation or question, Aleksandr Dmitrievich used one of the knockers, the heavy thud of iron against solid wood sounding in silence.

  
.

  
.

  
Silence. No answer on the other side of the heavy door, Georgi glanced at the agent, but Aleksandr Dmitrievich kept his gaze on the door, standing with a blank expression, strangely he looked more like a man walking towards the gallows than Georgi himself who he couldn't help but think that his own nation wanted to kill him, even though he was certain that a nation could not kill their president.

  
Then, he heard the sound of footsteps muffled by the thick wood of the door coming from inside the  _Podsolnukhov Dvoretz_ ; ' _Sunflower Palace_ ', and the door was opened. It took Georgi a few moments to recognize the personification of Belarus in the person who had just opened the door, the image of the woman who had almost threatened him with a knife ' _to be sure he was the best for her big brother_ ' clashed decisively with the person in front of him, the blue lacy dress longer than usual and the big blue satin bow on her head, accompanied by the languid look devoid of the ferocity she had seen that time made her look more like a doll than a person, let alone a Personification.

  
And Georgi couldn't help but wonder if his nation had anything to do with this change.

Belarus nodded briefly, letting them in before giving them a cordial, albeit disturbing, welcome, before reporting to the agent that Russia had 'asked' to meet his President without an escort and that he could therefore wait for his return in one of the 'informal parlors' on the ground floor.  
Without Aleksandr Dmitrievich at his side, Georgi felt even less secure.

  
“If you want to follow me, President  _Morozov Georgi Pavlovich_. Russia is waiting for you in  his office,”Belarus said, her voice calm, but empty of any possible emotion.

  
There was... there was something strange about this building, something that made him feel really uncomfortable, as if he were in a place where a human being should _never have set foot._

  
The inlaid walls of gilded stucco and malachite that echoed the vibrant turquoise of the exterior facade, the mirror-like marble floors that half reflected the ivory ceiling, even the furniture, which was of solid wood was as shiny as if it was new. And those opulent interiors did nothing but make everything even less welcoming, as if  he had entered a place stopped in time, where the hands of the clock had stopped moving centuries ago.  
  
_Everything was too perfect and it bothered him_.  
  
The president followed the personification upstairs and then down a huge corridor filled with frescoes: historical events and legends mixed and portrayed with pigments and precious metals; until arriving in front of a door, Belarus knocked twice before opening it and signaling him to enter.  
And with the fear and that sense of strong unease that weighed down his movements, Georgi entered the office of his country.  
  
The first thing he realized was that it seemed that he had entered a place that was not even part of the palace, gone were the light and vibrant colors, replaced by darker shades, the room was huge but, at the same time, suffocating with bookshelves leaning against the walls, alternating with displays that contained various objects:  _from a Mongolian helmet and curved sword to the last one that contained a luger and a red_ _armband_ _, whose symbol sewn in the center of a white circle was unmistakable_ .

  
They were  _trophies_ , Georgi realized, trophies from all those nations that Russia had defeated and thought important enough to be…  _shown_ . Displayed as a hunter displayed the heads of the animals  they had hunted, displayed as the bear pelt rug that covered part of the floor in front of the ebony desk that was too big and massive for any human but that suited his nation well, given how unnaturally large and tall the Personification was,  the bear’s head with its maws opened in a forever-lasting silent roar .

  
And on the wall behind the desk, fixed high between two large windows half covered by heavy curtains, was a crimson star edged with gold, the hammer-and-sickle that could be glimpsed beyond the shiny surface.

_Once again a reminder of what his nation had been_ .  
  
Another thing he realized was that the office was not as quiet as it had seemed, a low rhythmic sound that filled the air even though it was too low and muffled for him to understand what could be producing it that seemed to come from a darkly laid chest. on the desk, perhaps some clockwork device from a time long gone?  
And the third was that the Personification was nowhere, at least where he could see.  
  
The seconds passed slowly, expanding in such a way as to seem minutes and with only the rhythmic sound of the chest to keep him company, Georgi's fear increased. Out of all proportion.  
  
“Ah,  _Tovarish Morozov_ ! I hope I didn't make you wait too long. "  
  
The sudden voice, light and too joyful, of his nation almost startled him.

  
Georgi moved his gaze looking for the gigantic figure of the Personification, which seemed to have entered the office through a hidden door somewhere among the bookshelves closest to the desk.  
"N-no, no... I just arrived," the man lied, cursing the fact that his voice had trembled and how obvious his lie was. Russia knew exactly when he had arrived.  
  
"Oh  _good_ ." the nation said, his smile barely widening, knowing that the other had lied. "I would have hated it if we had started this encounter on the wrong foot." he continued before inviting him to take a seat in one of the armchairs positioned on the other side of the desk from where the nation had just sat. 

Russia was tall even when seated, towering him by almost forty centimeters, forcing him to raise his head as well as his gaze to be able to look him in the eye. Russia just looked down, making him feel even more insignificant.  
  
"So,  _Tovarish Morozov_ , what did you want to  discuss with me ?"  
  
Georgi looked at the nation, and although he was terrified to confront him on the subject, he took courage and did so. "The annexation of Belarus."

  
Russia's sweet gaze grew a little colder as the nation leaned a little forward, resting one elbow on the desk, and chin on the back of his hand, in a position almost too casual for the chill in his gaze. "Hm, what is there to say? My sister was no longer able to maintain her State alone and I helped her, now  _she no longer has to worry about anything_ . "  
  
A small, imperceptible shiver ran down Georgi's back at those words, at the tone in which they were spoken. If he hadn't seen Belarus already, he would have thought that Russia was confessing that he had…  _killed her_.  
" Sir, you cannot annex another nation without everything passing through the Duma and the Federation Council first."  
  
Russia's smile faded slightly at his half-reproach, even though a certain satisfaction glinted in his eyes at the fact that he had  referred to him  with a formality that was unlike that the Heads of State tended to use with Personifications,  as they usually were more familiar with them . "I think you are forgetting a fundamental point."  
  
"And what would that be,  sir ?"  
  
Russia pulled back from the position he had held up to that moment, holding his head up, a sharp, feral smile that began to curl his lips.  
“I don't need anyone's permission,  _Tovarish Morozov_ . Because  _I am Russia_ . "  
  
For one, two minutes Georgi found himself speechless, unable to counter the words of the Nation, after all…  _he was right isn't he?_ "Nyet, that's not how it works." he managed to say, breaking the silence that had been created, Russia's smile disappeared at his words, which sounded much more confident than what Georgi felt. “You Personifications have made a Vow. That of following the  Governments of your lands. "  
  
Russia made a very small gesture. “Da, it's true. But our 'Vow' can be ignored if we have to make quick decisions "  
  
"But there was no need for a quick decision. The nation of Belarus was in no situation that required…  _your immediate decision…_ _sir_ ”Georgi retorted, feeling a hint of security countering his fear as he barricaded himself behind his own, however small it was–he hadn't been taught all about Personifications, given that his role was temporary, but only enough to work with them– knowledge of the laws governing the actions of nations.  
  
Russia's gaze became even colder, the satisfaction that had made it shine completely gone just before. "But the situation demanded it." a little pause, a cold, almost cruel little smile folded the lips of the nation "After all, none of you know what happened to my sister's president, right?"  
  
Georgi froze. It was true that nothing had been heard for days of Jan Stragov, but no one had found the 'disappearance' of the man strange, since it was his habit to disappear for a while from the radar and then come back with some new proposal for the Russo-Belarussian Union, even though, if Georgi remembered correctly rumor had it that Stragov had wanted Belarus to leave the Union .  _Had_ _…_ _Had his nation acted because of those rumors? Had Russia…?_ Georgi turned his gaze to his nation. Russia laughed. The low sound that barely rumbled in his chest.  
  
"Oh, I didn't kill him, if that's what worries you." the smile came back to his face. "Nyet, it was  _Byelarus’_ ". I just protected her as the good older brother I am. "  
  
The revelation of the nation did nothing but freeze the blood in Georgi's veins even more. If it had been Belarus herself...  _this meant that there was really nothing that protected him from the Personification_ . "By annexing  her ?"  
  
Russia nodded. "It was the best way, if I had left her to herself, they would have found out. But by annexing her and,  with that,  dissolving her  Government , to make her part of my territories, it is much easier to hide what she has done. " 

Despite the terror caused by the previous revelation, Georgi had to admit that the nation's reasoning was sound. Letting someone else take Stragov's place would leave Belarus in the same situation she was in before, whatever that was. Russia had only done his best to make sure that the other nation did not suffer the consequences of her action. A sudden realization made its way  through the terror that confused his thoughts. Russia, the terrifying Personification of his Nation, had acted that way to…  _protect his sister_ . And it was such a human motivation that  made  even the inhuman Personification  appear  less threatening in his eyes.

  
Georgi could understand the desire to protect his sister, he would do anything to protect his sister Katya, so the reasons of his nation were not alien to him at all.

  
But understandable or not, Russia had acted so humanly, so instinctively that  he hadn't thought about the ramifications of  his action. So Georgi had to do his job as President and remind him of them, while remaining firmly on his side.

  
Georgi made a small nod "I understand your reasons, Russia," he said, being surprised that Russia did not seem to have anything to say about the informal way in which he had addressed him "But, as you know well, the foreign powers will not see favorably your move. Seeing how they reacted to the annexation of Crimea, despite  the fact that we had  the consent of the Crimeans. " A little pause, Georgi found himself looking down at the desk, while his voice became just more severe and cold as steel. For the first time not frightened by his country, but worried for him. "I'm afraid they could compare the annexation of Belarus to that of Chechnya... To say that we have conquered the nation, or to accuse us of having subjugated her or in some way manipulated  her people ..."  
  
Russia was silent for a few moments, the smile on his lips thinned before disappearing. With that serious expression on his face and indecipherable gaze, despite the youthfulness shown by his appearance, the nation seemed ancient and wise.  
“Da, your fears may be well founded. NATO loves to snoop on our affairs, and America is usually more than happy to back them up and push them to interfere. But!" exclaimed the Nation, interrupting himself, and even if there was no smile to fold his lips, his eyes sparkled with a cold sort of glee, despite the impossibility of it. "But America has other problems to deal with and without the Eagle on their side, other nations will be more hesitant to go against us, or even just accuse us. Although I'm sure someone will try anyway. "  
  
Georgi nodded. It was true that without America meddling in the  affairs of the world,  the  other nations were quieter, but at the same time, to think that the problem that his nation was referring to was the fact that America was leading his own country was something that he still couldn't believe. A Personification at the Head of his own Nation was absurd… it was, frankly,  _terrifying_ . "If we were to receive...  _questions_ , or requests for investigations, from other nations how do you suggest we should move?"  
  
A smile curled Russia's lips, this time, sharp and dangerous, like a snake baring its fangs. Georgi, however, did not feel threatened,  this time , he knew it was not addressed to him. "We can use the distraction America is giving us to our advantage, as well as the fact that the Western media prefers to let what we do  go  under the radar." 

Georgi gave his country a curious look. Perhaps, he had understood what his nation was alluding to,  _but… surely he didn't mean…? If they had discovered them, the whole nation would have been in big trouble, to put it mildly, with the U.N._

  
"We can 'create' the official documents that refer to a referendum for the annexation of Belarus, my sister is able to perfectly imitate the signature of her former boss, so we can also have an 'official' signature from Stragov. And then it will be your job,  _Tovarish_ , to instruct the FSB to make sure that even on a digital level everything is… as authentic as possible. "  
  
"But... This... Russia, if anyone finds out... The consequences could be disastrous."  
  
"Then you'll have to make sure the job is done  well ." the Nation replied, calm as if it didn't concern him or as if he wasn't worried at all. As if failure wasn't even a viable option. "The Personifications are too busy looking across the ocean to bother to carefully observe any document we put before their eyes. I wouldn't propose something like this if I'm not sure we'll get away with it. Because while for you it would be just a disaster in your career, it could cost me my life. And I am quite happy to continue to exist as long as possible, da? "  
  
“I'll do my best, more than my best. It's a promise,  _Rossiya_ . "  
  
Russia nodded. "That's all I can ask you,  _Prezident_ ."  
  
Georgi nodded, not knowing how to respond to the nation, in part, amazed. It was the first time since they had spoken that Russia had called him by his title, instead of 'comrade'. It was also the first time that when looking at the personification, Georgi could see  him as something somewhat  human. He was not the inhuman creature that had seemed to him the first time he had seen him, no, his nation in  his profound inhumanity, was, in a sense, as human as and more than him.

  
Now, Georgi understood what  _Vladimir Vladimirovich_ was referring to when he said that being in the presence of the personification was like being in the presence of both an old friend and a close relative but at the same time also a distant commander.

  
Russia was all  of that together, and Georgi now understood.  
  
Once the two reached an agreement on how to proceed, agreeing that the meeting was over, the man greeted the nation with a small smile and another promise, before leaving the office.  
And the smile he received in response was so warm and bright that Georgi was sure he would never forget it.  
  


* * *

  
  
Russia had to admit that Morozov had surprised him. He was not the incompetent coward he had seemed at their first meeting. Of course, he was still incomprehensibly nervous and unsure  in  how to approach him, but he was not incompetent, on the contrary, he knew what he was doing, which was a characteristic that the Nation expected in his leaders and that he respected.

  
While thinking about this, the Nation brought the little chest, placed on a corner of his desk, in front of him, before opening it, the small winding key inside was still turning jerkily. He must have forgotten to remove it when he heard Belarus knock. The spiked cylinder that kept striking the same four notes.

  
Russia removed the key and the music box stopped playing, bringing silence to his office. Turning the small key in his fingers, Russia reflected on the meeting that had just taken place, on the issues raised by  his temporary President, and on the consequences of his actions, should his plan ever fail.

  
Russia had spent decades mulling over and planning his grand plan to bring his family back to him. To bring all those little traitors, towards whom he still felt affection, back under his roof.

  
_He couldn't fail._

  
_No, he wouldn't fail._ He was certain that he would succeed because the other nations, those who had fled from his Union, were looking for new stability now, and he would give it to them, provided they returned to him. And they would do it, as his dear little sister had done.

"Was it really necessary?"

  
Russia's attention snapped to the source of the voice, Natalia had just entered his office, her expression annoyed.  
  
Russia raised an eyebrow, confused by the sudden question, as his sister approached with quick strides towards him. Belarus remained silent until he joined him on the other side of the desk.  
  
"I don't like humans knowing where our home is,  _Vanya_ ."  
  
Russia turned to his sister, leaving the key on the desk, giving her a small smile.  
"Don't worry,  _Natalyushka_ , neither my president nor Aleksandr will mention it to anyone"  
  
Belarus came even closer, her expression less annoyed than before.  
"And how can you be sure? They are human, it is easy to make them talk... "  
  
Russia's smile widened even more. "Because they can't,  _sestra_ ."  
  
"They  _can’t_ ? Did you use your national voice, big brother? "  
  
“ _Nyet_ , I suggested to them that I wouldn't like them to talk about it  with my presence. You know how susceptible humans are to us. "  
  
Belarus barely nodded, getting even closer. Which normally would have made Russia uncomfortable, Natalia was still in a delicate situation, he had to keep her away, for her own good… to allow her to remain an independent nation, but at this very moment he didn't care. It had been so long since he'd had the company of anyone other than cold General Winter.

  
Belarus paused, uncertain for a moment, before sitting on his lap, as she did when they were younger, young nations against the cruel world, grabbing one end of his scarf and holding it tightly in her hands.  
“Okay, big brother. It's just that... I don't want anyone... to disturb us... da? " she said softly, her voice just muffled against his coat.

  
Russia put an arm around her, his little sister was so small and petite that she seemed almost fragile in his arms, too small, too delicate… even though he knew she was not as fragile as she seemed. Russia gave her a sweet smile.  
"I will protect us, da? I'll keep you safe,  _Natalyushka_ , don't worry, "he said softly, so softly that if Belarus hadn't been so close, she wouldn't even have heard it over the sound of the wind whistling and hissing outside the window.

  
Belarus didn't respond with just another small nod as she tightened her grip on the scarf. Reassured by her brother's words and happy that, this time, he wasn't rejecting her.

  
Russia had been so distant lately, so different from the big brother she remembered, but things seemed to be returning to normal and Russia was embracing her, which was all she needed to distract herself from all the problems that were plaguing her, maybe she had to stop worrying.  _Russia would take care of everything_ . And since, her big brother would take care of everything, Belarus had nothing to fear.

  
"Okay, big brother," she murmured in response, Russia made his hug tighter.

  
Belarus smiled.


	8. The Eagle is Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America has things to do about his own State, but the rest of the world wants to know what he thinks about Russia's actions

_America didn't know what to do._   
  
He  didn’t really know, on the one hand he wanted to ignore the Europeans, to continue to deal only with solving his  own  problems. But on the other hand… he knew that it would arouse suspicion, he –or rather the version of himself he had presented to others– was not the type to let go of something like this.  
It was enough to see what his government's reaction had been, and his own –even if it was mainly due to his mask, why would he care if Russia wanted to take back that little peninsula in the Black Sea? But his government had made an issue of it and he had acted accordingly– in 2014, he had sanctioned Russia, kicked him out of the Group of Eight (although only temporarily, Russia had then decided to leave it permanently… or at least for the time being his decision seemed final), all while continuing to urge him to return Crimea to Ukraine.

  
So it was to be expected that Europeans would expect  him to react to the recent news of the annexation of Belarus in a similar, if not greater, way  s ince  Belarus was, after all, a nation and not just a region like Crimea. But America could find no reason why he should _care._ Belarus had always been obsessively tied to Russia, and even  her former president Lukashenko was quite focused on the fact that the Union between the two nations should be 'consummated'.

  
As creepy and disturbing as it was, considering Russia saw Belarus as a sister.

  
So why did America have to intervene if the two decided to  unite ? It wasn't as if Russia had absorbed Belarus… or at least, America was pretty sure Russia hadn't. He could not imagine the other nation devouring his own sister like a hungry beast. So Belarus was with Russia of  her own accord, or  her people would have rebelled…  
  
America heaved a small tired sigh, taking off  his glasses for a moment, rubbing the base of  his nose with two fingers. He already had so much to do: Take care of his nation, run his own  Government efficiently… and now there was  this too.

  
America put his hand on the desk –in his personal office in his home– and refrained from smashing his head against the desk in hopes of losing consciousness. At least he would have rested for a while from fainting, not being able to think of anything.  
But he couldn't, he had to be a responsible nation after all, even if he wasn't part of the usual mask he presented to other nations.

  
His personal phone, placed in his jacket pocket, began to vibrate, tearing him back from his considerations.  
America took it and saw who was calling him  and  stifled another sigh, he felt a beginning of migraine present itself. Suddenly  opening the bottle of vodka that Russia had  gifted him and start drinking, didn't seem like a bad idea anymore. But he had promised himself that he would prove  that he responsible so, with another sigh, he accepted the call.

  
Only to immediately remove the phone from his ear to the series of words yelled at him with a heavy London accent. Over time England had completely lost the more melodious accent of  the  Celtic  language , which was really a shame, America had always liked to listen to him speak with that strange cadence that always gave the impression that the other was humming…   
  
"America? America?! America, I swear if you left the tel-! "  
  
“I'm here, Iggy. I was just waiting for you to stop screaming… "he interrupted him, hesitantly putting the phone back to his ear and hoping that the other nation would not decide, again, to try to make him deaf as well as give him a migraine.  
  
"If you had deigned to answer the first time, instead of the seventh, maybe I wouldn't have gotten to this point, right America?"  
  
America was silent for a moment, had England really called him so many times before he knew it?  
"The…  _seventh_ ? _Really?_ Haven't heard the phone until now."  
  
For a few moments England said nothing and when he finally decided to speak, his voice had lost that annoyed hardness, softening. "America, when was the last time you slept?"  
  
America held back a sharp and sarcastic response, irritated by the fact that the other nation thought  he could treat him as if he were still a colony and instead replied: "Uh… maybe… a week ago? Or two… I'm not sure. I was busy."  
  
“Ame-…  _Alfred_ , I understand that your commitments are important, between the  Presidential and the national ones, but you can't continue like this. You  too know that no matter how inhumane we may be, we also need to rest from time to time. Take a break for a while, rest… "  
  
Once again America refrained from snapping badly at the other, – _Who did he think he was to tell him what to do? He was no longer his colony. He hadn't been for centuries_ –, “Maybe later. I'm sure you didn't call me for this though, did you? "  
  
America heard an indistinct sound coming from the other end of the call, it almost sounded like a sigh, but the nation could not tell if he was tired or resigned.  
  
"No, I didn't call you for this –even if I didn't lie about what I said before– no, I called for… the Situation with Russia and Belarus, the EU –I know I'm not a part of it anymore but I'm the only one on the continent that has direct contact with you-  was thinking of not recognize the referendum "  
  
"Referendum? I hadn't heard of a referendum… my sources had only talked about annexation.”  
  
"Belarus was annexed in a referendum… apparently, but-"  
  
"Then, _what is the problem_ ?" America interrupted England once again, some of his irritation evident in his voice. To answer his question there was only silence, for a long, long moment and only then did America realize his false step and, immediately, while trying to maintain a semblance of calm, not to point out that his was an attempt. to make up for a mistake, he said: “I mean, we know that Belarus has always been  _obsessed with Russia_ , and that even  her leaders wanted the two nations to unite permanently… I honestly don't think this situation is like that of Crimea. Ukraine wants nothing to do with his brother, but Belarus…  _we all know what Belarus is like._ "

Another little silence on the other side. "Yes, you are right. Probably the referendum is legitimate in this case… But I don't like that Russia is merging more territories, first Chechnya, then Crimea and now Belarus… "  
  
"Dude,  _man_ , you're worrying too much, really-"  
  
"America, you just can’t understand why I'm worried, because it doesn't concern you, but Russia is moving towards the West and-!"  
  
"Maybe if you didn't interrupt me, I would have explained why I don't think you need to worry  so much ." America interrupted him again. His voice colder and steadier than usual, his tone a distant ghost of the first time America realized he was not safe from the wars of the Old Continent and their associates, a voice that immediately silenced the older nation. “Well, then  as I was saying,  you don't have to worry, honestly. Russia is "merging" only territories that are worth him more trouble than anything else, certainly with Crimea he has taken our quick access from the Black Sea. But with Belarus? Come on,  _man_ , you too know that her economy was already completely dependent on Russia, and the same goes for  her defense… Honestly, Belarus would have become one of the other nations that has fallen into economic depression if her brother hadn’t decided to hold out his hand and help her even after she left him after the fall of the Soviet Union. " America paused for a while, letting the coldness slip completely from  his voice. "And now that Russia has made her part of his territories, all the problems he alleviated  _but never solved_ are his. Honestly Iggy, do you really think he will have time to try to  _'expand to the west'_ while trying not to collapse his own internal economy now that he has taken on his sister's problems?"  
  
"Well, when you put it that way, America… my fears seem quite illogical…"  
  
"Because they are, Iggy." America said, stifling a small smile at that. It was always nice to hear England say that he was right. "Let the Bear take back his old satellite  State , it will be more of a problem for him than for you."  
  
A small sound from the other end of the phone call, probably of agreement. “I'll tell the others. And seriously America, get some rest. "  
  
"Yes, yes I will. Don’t worry, old man";  
  
Shortly after that little exchange, the British nation gave him his greetings and ended the call.  
America put the phone down on the desk, pondering what they had just talked about, until the information about the referendum came back to his mind.

  
His source hadn't told him anything about that and it was suspicious. But even if  it was, America owed a pretty big favor to the Slavic nation, after all Russia had helped him get rid of that dead weight of his ex-President, so even if the whole  _referendum issue_ seemed pretty suspicious to him, America decided to turn a blind eye  on it . He had other things to deal with, and Russia's plans didn't interest him… at the moment. Or at least he didn't care as long as Russia stayed away from his allies… and speaking of allies-…  
  
America picked up the phone again,  he  had someone to call, only to confirm that Russia's plans  wouldn’t become a hindrance, or a disturbance, to his own.  
  
"Hello, this is the Republic of Kazakhstan speaking." a rich, warm voice answered, with a notable accent that America didn't know exactly how to define, it sounded like Russia's but sweeter.  
  
“Hey, Jantos! It's me, America! " he answered the informal to the formal greeting of his 'friend', keeping up even if only vocally his mask, the America everyone knew.  
  
An annoyed sigh rang from the other end of the phone call. "It's Zhandos, America not Ja- Forget it, by now I have lost hope that you can pronounce it correctly… So why did you call me?"

America narrowed his eyes, a fire of anger lighting up in his chest, he hated when others considered him stupid, or a complete idiot…  _even if it was part of the persona he showed them._ Choking back his anger, America replied, “First of all: _Ouch!_ It is not my fault that you and Russia have the same impossible pronunciations. Second: What a friend can't call another without necessarily wanting something? "  
  
“Oh, I don't know, America.  _Are we even friends_ ? Because Russia is doing a lot of stuff on this side of the ocean and you only deigned to call now… "  
  
_'A lot of stuff'_ ? Was there something America didn't know?  _No, his informant would have told him if Russia made more moves than just annex Belarus, even though that information was pretty important so maybe something had gone under the radar?_

  
"What  can I say ... I've been busy taking care of my own State, it's not easy, you know?" He replied, letting some of his irritation leak out in his tone despite keeping it friendly enough, Kazakhstan said nothing and then America continued. "I heard about the annexation of Belarus, like… yesterday, so… But why is Russia doing something else?"  
  
For a moment Kazakhstan was silent. "I don't… know if he's doing something else." another small pause, but the Asian nation continued without giving America time to ask for explanations. “Let me explain… Russia is…  _doing something_ , but I don't know if it's something with some other intent behind it. It could simply be another one of his attempts to strengthen our friendship, but after what happened with Belarus I can't help but… think there is something else underneath this selfless help he is giving me lately. "  
  
" _’Selfless help’?_ What is it Russia doing for you?"  
  
Another short pause on the other side, as if the Asian nation was weighing the pros and cons of telling him what was happening and then the Kazakh's voice broke the silence. “It’s nothing suspicious really, he has invested in the construction of new factories and some oil refineries, as well as investing and helping us concretely – _he has even sent some of his own citizens to help!_ – in the construction of new infrastructures and transport routes. It was really…  _nice of him_ to spend a lot on us… and he didn't ask for anything in return. Not even a small drop in oil or chromium prices,  _nothing._ And… my citizens are starting to feel grateful to the Russians for their help… I… I'm starting to feel grateful to Russia and…  _I don't like it_ . "  
  
Hearing those words, America's interest in the other nation's situation quickly faded. Russia was interested in influencing Kazakhstan, maybe taking him back under his control, either directly or not that was yet to be seen, but he didn't seem interested in re-nuclearizing the nation, also because Kazakhstan would probably have rebelled against it, so America didn't care, not really. But he was the 'Hero' so he couldn't leave someone in 'danger' just because, in reality, he didn't care. “I understand… Do you want me to sign some investment in some field in your country? So as to offset  Russia’s  influence? "  
  
America very much hoped that the Kazakh would refuse help, he honestly had no funds to waste at the moment.  
  
"No, no… thanks for the offer, America, I can't ask you  that much. We will maintain our independence… even if Russia is really kind and seems to really care about what happens in my territory… "the Kazakh's voice faded slowly, the opinion of his people leaving his lips instead of his own. It was almost  _frightening_ to see how much power the weak, mercurial humans had over them.  
  
"I see. But if there should be anything, anything, with which I can help you, don't hesitate to tell me. "  
  
A brief silence greeted his words before Kazakhstan thanked him. “I'll do it if there is a need, America. In the… In the meantime, I'll keep you informed if Russia does something  _weird_ , okay? "

This time it was America's turn to be silent for a few moments. Amazed by the words of the other, by the genuine offer of Kazakhstan, usually the American had to subtly convince, guide others to help him with his words, but Kazakhstan had simply offered it to him… like this, without him doing anything. Maybe… Maybe he would have helped the Kazakh if Russia had tried to make any more moves towards him, if only for the fact that he had been sincere in offering his help.

  
"America? Are you still there?" The voice of the other nation pulled him out of his thoughts.

  
"Yeah, yeah, sorry… And… thank you for… for the offer. It would be really great if you could keep an eye on Russia too. " after saying those words, America made a small grimace at how weak and small his voice had sounded before he’d recovered his resolve.

  
Kazakhstan's response was a simple sound of agreement. And after a while, once they were certain that there was nothing else to talk about, the two nations gave each other brief greetings and America ended the call.  
  
The American took Texas, his glasses, and put them back on. Russia's plans, whatever they were, were perhaps just more dangerous than he had thought, mostly because Russia seemed hellbent on bolstering his influence. But as long as it was confined to the ex-Soviet  States , even if America would try to protect Kazakhstan if the Russian tried to annex him, all in all it wasn't something he needed to worry too much about. He had defeated the Soviet Union once…  _he could do it again._   
  
' _But that isn’t true is it? You ‘defeated’ the union only because it collapsed by itself, you did nothing_ 'the thought that came to his mind, sounding like it had been whispered by Russia, was quite unpleasant. But not entirely true.  He had done things, to offset the Soviet influence, to assure that resources arrived with more than just a bit of difficulty. He made Soviet Union’s life a living hell to make his downfall fast and certain.  _ But could he again if it came to that? _   
  
America brushed off that thought of defeat and went back to his duties as President. And then maybe he would go to sleep, not because England told him, but because he needed to be at his best for whatever Russia was planning.

  
And America hoped so much that Russia would not turn against him, the Slavic nation was the only one that, despite himself, America considered his friend.

  
With a tired sigh, America returned to focus on the documents.

  
_How the hell was he supposed to fix these holes in the budget? He couldn't tax his citizens as if there was no tomorrow, they were already unhappy enough as they were_ , and America didn't want to increase tensions. Perhaps he could cut, or decrease, some of the…  _superfluous expenses_ . America paused for a moment, starting to fiddle with the pen he was holding. Perhaps he could decrease the funds given to the military, it was not that there were any big wars coming –he hoped– and none of the other nations were spending as much as he was on their military forces and seemed to be getting along without problems.

  
Stopping fiddling with the pen in his hands, he placed it on the sapwood desk, then picked up his phone again, on which he wrote a small note, using a designated application, not yet ready to make a concrete decision, preferring to have a precise picture of what actions he wanted to take, and to be on the safe side also someone to discuss them too. Also with a couple of options ready for his reform plan he could also show them to Owen and ask him what he thought and how they could improve them.  
  
After all, he had asked his Spokesperson to be his Personal Advisor for a reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Note: Some times when America or Russia are thinking to the past, I refer to Soviet Union as He in this fic, that's because, in my HC, when the Soviet Union existed, Russia took its the name. So I'm technically still refering to Russia just calling him Soviet Union.


	9. Belarus' Delusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belarus’ sanity starts worsening as a result of her killing her own President, Russia doesn’t notice and unknowingly plays along her _budding delusions_.

"Vanyusha?"  
Belarus waited a few moments, holding the gilded tray with both hands, on the tray a brass samovar decorated in Khokhloma style –the black laquered background with painted on small red strawberries, white flowers and golden leaves– with on top the teapot with zavarka, concentrated tea, so as to keep it warm, and around it two cups, decorated in the same style, and three containers with: honey, jam and sugar cubes. Belarus waited for a few more moments before moving the tray so that she could hold it with one hand. "Vanyusha? May I come in?" she asked after knocking. "I brought tea."  
After a few more moments of silence, Belarus heard Russia tell her that she could enter and so she did, closing the door behind her after.  
  
"Spasybo, Natasha," her brother said, a small smile on his face, though he didn't look up from the documents he was reading that much. "But isn't it a bit early? We haven't even had lunch yet. "  
  
Belarus approached the other, placing the tray on the desk, in the space he had freed before answering her. “Actually, it's night, Vanya. You skipped both lunch and dinner… I tried to call you but you didn't answer and… _I didn't want to bother you_. "  
  
Russia made a small sound, a little surprised ' _oh_ ', as he finally looked up from the document only to move his gaze to the large windows behind him, which were covered with heavy curtains as always during the winter to prevent the bitter cold outside to enter the heated room. Then he turned to his sister: “I must have lost track of time. Sorry for leaving you alone today, Natalia. " while saying these words he hid part of his face in his scarf, as if he were embarrassed and as a sign of apology at the same time.  
  
“I assumed you lost track of time. Don't worry, Vanya. " she said, smiling at her brother, as she moved the teapot from the top of the samovar to the tray. Then pouring the concentrated tea into the two cups, filling them a quarter and a little more –after all, it was just her and her brother, and she knew that, like her, Russia enjoyed tea a pinch stronger than what he drank when they had guests–.

  
Russia gave her a small nod of thanks, taking the cup as she moved it towards him, to dilute the tea with hot water from the samovar, as  he preferred. Then sweeten it with just a little honey.

  
_Strange,_ Belarus remembered that Russia, while favoring stronger tea, preferred it very sweet.  Her brother had always been a bit  of a sweet-tooth . 

_It probably must have been the fault of some influence from_ _his_ _population_ . Belarus made  her own cup of tea to  her preference and then turned  her attention back to Russia. "What are you working on that is so interesting that it captivates you so much?"  she  asked her tone light, sweet, like the tea she was drinking.  
  
For a few moments Russia did not answer, sipping some of  his tea, then holding the cup in  his hands even after  he had stopped, as if trying to  warm them with the heat of the liquid contained in the enamel l ed brass, although it was impossible. Russia was already cold normally, during the winter  his body temperature became icy  as if he was  a statue of living ice. "It's not so much the fact that it's interesting… as much as  the fact that I've had a lot to do…" another small pause, Russia's gaze shifted from  his sister's, lowering  itself to the amber tea in the cup. "Why didn't you ever tell me that you had so many problems in  transporting and refining the materials of your lands, _Byelarus’?_ I would have helped you…  _you know._ _Right?_ "  
  
This time it was Belarus's turn to remain silent for a moment, taken aback by her brother's soft and genuinely confused tone. He almost looked…  _hurt by it._ “I couldn't always depend on you, Vanya. I had to show others that I had the ability to be an independent nation… I couldn't ask you for help at the slightest difficult… "  
  
“I understand, Natasha, I understand. But… you could have done so much if you had asked me for even a meager investment, I don't mean  like that you should have asked me to rebuild the entire system, but invest so that you could update what you had… "  
  
“It doesn't make sense to discuss the past now, does it, Vanya? I am your region and I know that you will help me as you  couldn’t do before. "  
  
Russia looked up again to  her . "You really trust me  a lot , huh, Natalyushka?"  
  
"I wouldn't have accepted an annexation if I didn't, Vanya," she replied with a sweet little smile on her lips. Russia gave her a smile as well, which disappeared when the smile on Belarus's face did the same. "But it's not just that… there's _something else,_ isn't it?"  
  
Russia remained silent, as if undecided whether to answer her question or not, as if  he thought the answer might hurt her and wanted to spare her. _He was always so protective,_ always trying to protect her even when he knew he couldn't. For a moment the mind of Belarus was brought back to a memory, of a period that, although recent, seemed to be part of another era.

  
She had just left the Soviet Union, along with Ukraine, America had ' _welcomed them under_ _his_ _wing_ ' to ' _protect_ ' them from possible Soviet retaliation, which never occurred because shortly after the Soviet Union completely collapsed.

  
Belarus couldn't even go and check how  her brother was doing after the event. But shortly after the collapse of the Union, something had happened, America had tried to persuade  her to let  him build some base in  her territory. ' _To protect you better,_ ' the American had said, _protect her from what_ _exactly_ _she had no idea._

  
America was insistent, annoying. Belarus had been tempted more than once to chase him away, despite the consequences. And then Russia, or rather the newly collapsed Soviet Union, had arrived –his uniform could have been creased and he himself could have been in better condition with messy hair, noticeable dark circles under his eyes that looked so tired and... _dead_ – but he had arrived with his pipe in hand, and the anger of a mother bear who had her cubs in danger and had ordered America, and even hit him with his pipe to let the other know he wasn’t about to let his order be ignored,  to leave her alone.

  
_Russia was always so protective._   
  
"I was thinking of a way to protect you from Ukraine."

  
Russia's voice brought her back to the present, and it took only a moment for the Belarusian to pick up on the sentence just spoken.

  
"Protect me? Ukraine is our sister, she would never hurt us… "  
  
Russia looked at her,  his eyes were so melancholy and so…  _sad._ As if he were amazed and touched by her naivety. 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she snapped before she could stop herself.  
  
“You're not just Belarus anymore,  Natalyushka . You are part of Russia and Ukraine hates me… "  
  
“But… she is our sister. We are a  _family_ …"  
  
“Not in  her eyes. Not anymore." Russia uttered those words so solemnly, that they rang like pure truth to  Belarus’ ears . A deep anger filled her body, waking her from the torpor into which the loss, by her hand, of her President had sent her.  _How could Ukraine hurt them like that? How could_ _she_ _abandon them? How could_ _she_ _? Didn't_ _she_ _have remorse? Didn't she feel any guilt_ _for_ _leaving them alone, after all they'd been through together?_ _I’ll_ _punish her_ , Belarus decided _,_ _I’ll_ _punish her for hurting Russia and for abandoning_ _us_ .  
  
“ _We don't need_ _her_ _._ You and I are a family, and if she wants to be alone, _too bad for her._ " the Belarusian said, her anger evident in her voice as well as her determination  as she gripped her cup tighter , if she still had the strength of the personification of a nation,  instead of that of a region, she would have folded it like paper even if it was made of metal.  
  
Russia smiled at her, the former melancholy present in  his expression  almost completely gone, the  traces that remained were mixed with an indefinable nostalgia.  
  
A calm, almost comfortable silence fell between them, the harsh whistle of the wind blowing outside was the only sound that prevented that silence from being too complete, saving it from the risk of becoming…  _oppressive_ .

  
The two personifications continued to drink their tea in silence for a few moments.  Belarus’ eyes were captured for a moment by the glitter of the lacquered surface of the red star fixed on the wall, the warm reflections of the yellow light from the  chandelier almost created the illusion of a fire trapped behind the transparent lacquer. Imaginary tongues of fire that coiled and danced caressing the hammer-and-sickle which then reflected them with its golden surface.  
  
_Who knows why Russia had never taken that star out of_ _his_ _private office…_   
  
Belarus looked down, for a moment letting it descend along the figure of her brother, tall and proud as a general who led the troops even when he sat filling out papers, Russia seemed as distracted, lost in thought as she  was . One of Kamchatka, his scarf, tails wrapped lazily around his arm, like a snake that instead of appreciating the warmth of the sun preferred the cold of snow, the tail of the scarf tightened its grip for a moment, before  slipping down with a rustle of cloth.

  
Belarus watched the fall of the woolen garment, then moved it to the desk in front of her, the glossy ebony surface with tortoiseshell inlays, almost entirely covered –except where she had placed the tray– by documents, some signed from what she could see, others seemed to have small notes written in elegant Russian calligraphy, all the swirls and hooks between each letter done with care as if he was a student writing an essay for his favorite teacher, alongside parts that the Nation had marked with great care.  
In order not to betray Russia's trust, she didn’t read the documents, except for a few words that she couldn’t help but notice as she let her gaze pass on the papers.

  
Belarus lowered her cup on the tray.  
  
"Why are you dealing with… _all this_?" she asked, before she could get her curiosity under control. "Isn't it your President's job to take care of much of this?"  
  
Russia made a small nod, before finishing his tea, motioning her to pass him the teapot. "Da, technically it's his job." he answered, pouring a quantity of the zavarka into the cup and then setting the teapot down. “But he asked me to help him. Isn't it… _great?_ It has been a long time since one of my Presidents have let me put my hand on anything that concerns my Government, of course, I trust his decisions, but I like to have something to do. " he continued, as he finished making the tea according to his preference.  
  
"And he faxed you everything?" 

Russia chuckled softly and gleefully at her question motivated by her displeasure at that waste of time and ink, when a simple email would have been enough. “Nyet, Nyet! He sent them in digital format… I preferred to print them… It's easier to take notes when I don't have to worry about the keyboard misunderstanding which key I'm pressing. " he explained.  
  
Belarus nodded, her brother had… _big hands_ , proportionate to the giant size of the rest of his body. It was understandable that he was having trouble with something that didn't fit his size.  
"You know, Vanya I still don't understand why you don't get a custom made computer, so you wouldn't have all these problems…"  
  
"I could do it, but this computer was a gift from Estonia…" said the Slavic nation with a small sweet, as it was pretty, smile to fold his lips. "You know how rare it is for the Baltics to send me anything."  
  
Once again Belarus answered with a gesture, trying to keep from frowning at that admission. _Did Russia really prefer to suffer all these problems just because that computer was a stupid gift from a damned traitor?_ Her brother had such _a big heart_ to give importance even to a gift given to him by a traitor just because they had once been part of the family… _Da,_ _her_ _brother was sweet and he was kind._ Belarus would have protected him, would not allow others to hurt him as they had decades ago. She would have protected him as he protected her. Because even if she was just his region now, _Russia was hers._

_  
Her brother. _

_  
Her family. _

_  
Hers . _

_  
Only…_ _Hers_ _._   


  
"Natasha?" Russia's voice brought her back to reality. "Everything is alright?"  
  
“ Da ,  da , all right, Vanyusha. Everything good." the Belarusian gave him one of her sweet smiles, which were dedicated only to him. "Even if I still think you should switch computers, it would be easier… for you…"  
  
Russia smiled at her. “ You do always worry about me,  hm ? You always take care of me… "  
  
"Even the strongest need someone to be there for them."  
  
Russia's smile widened just a little,  his eyes bright and warm in the dim light.  The nation put down the cup and got up from the chair, walking around the desk.

  
Belarus looked up to continue meeting that of his brother, and since not even raising her eyes was enough she had to slightly tilt her head upward due to their substantial difference in height.  
Still smiling at her in that sweet, affectionate way, Russia, now in front of her, dropped to one knee. And Belarus almost felt breathless to see her beloved –because she loved him… even if she hadn't understood it until now…– brother kneel in front of her.  
Sagging a little further, because Russia was still much taller than her even in that position, Russia brought their faces closer, so much so that Belarus could smell the black tea with rosebuds and lemon that he had just drunk in his breath.  
  
"And you will always be there for me… right?" He asked, breaking the silence, his voice little more than a whisper, but there was no need for it to be higher even than a note for her to hear it. He was everything Belarus could think of for now, while he was so, so close to her.  
  
"Da, until you want me by your side," she replied without hesitation. Her voice a little more whispered and trembling –of emotion or anticipation (for what she did not know), even she was no more certain– than she would have liked, her gaze focused on that of her brother.  
Russia moved even closer, resting his forehead against hers.

  
"Then it's forever."  He said.

  
" _Forever_ ."  she confirmed in a breath. 

* * *

  
  
Outside the office, beyond the windows, in the middle of the storm, the ghostly figure of General Winter shook his head in disappointment.  
He thought _he had taught little Rus' better._   
With a last look at the two  siblings , the immortal representation of the Siberian Winter dissolved in the snowy wind. 


	10. And so it started

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People may thing that Cuba and America hate each other, they do not, in fact they think of the other as a brother. Cuba goes to visit America and to talk to him about a something that he needs America’s help for…

America drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the off-road vehicle, reflecting for a moment what he could  give to Russia, without arousing suspicion from other nations, for the Lada Niva he had given him, since at the moment it was only thanks to the car that Russia had given him that he could go unnoticed. After all, everyone expected the President to drive in the presidential car, rather than in a Russian car, which also had all the windows  tinted .

  
His escort, made up of the best PAIN agents Owen had found in the OWN, followed him, disguised in traffic so as not to attract attention.

  
America shifted his gaze from the car stopped in front of his  to the traffic lights, as if he wanted to push  it with his gaze from red to green, while he was reflecting. Perhaps simply not getting too involved in the situation with Belarus could be an appropriate gift. After all, America preferred to be  _fair_ when he could, and above all he preferred to pay off  this gift, since he didn’t know what Russia thought he would get by gifting him the Lada and if he was waiting for some kind of payment as quickly as possible, since he already owed the Russian a great favor.  Maybe Russia had gifted him the car as a  form of bribe so that he wouldn’t stick his nose in his business, America mused.

  
Looking out the window, America's gaze fell on some of his citizens who were walking in a public park overlooking the street, he would have liked to be able to do the same, but he knew it would attract attention, and for the moment he  didn’t know if he would be able to keep the mask of his human identity for  the long time  that interancting with his citizens as their President would have required .

  
America had never realized how much he took for granted  the fact  that his children, his citizens,  didn’t recognize him. He had never realized that to escape the stress of his job he tended to ' _hide_ ' among his citizens, to pretend to be normal for a while, but now he couldn't even do that, since his face was now known everywhere  as the face of the President of the United States of America.  
  
America sighed.  
  
Sometimes he would have liked to be only human, to have none of the obligations of a nation, and at the same time the idea terrified him. Living a life that lasted a moment in his eyes, a life in which a single mistake in a risky moment could spell its perpetual end  was… kind of a  _terrifying_ thing to think about.   
And he had made some fatal mistakes, just as all the other nations had done more than once, but he was used to not giving  them more  than the weight  required  to avoid them. Indeed he and the other Personifications were so used to it that at times they found it almost annoying that they had to go through the whole process of ' _dying_ ' just to wake up again,  _couldn't they just heal?_

  
  
As the light finally turned green, America thought back to that time in World War II when Russia, then Soviet Union, was hit in the stomach by one of  his own anti-tank  cannons , the only reason why the shockwave of the shot, hadn't torn him apart was  simply that nations are naturally more resilient than human beings. 

Russia had simply barked at his men the order to correct the lifting degree of the  cannon before collapsing, his body  going shock from the damage,  laying down on the dusty dirt slightly convulsing as the gaping wound, so big and deep that you could see all the way through the other end, countinued to bleed out , then he was dead. And not even half a day later he was back at the front giving orders and fighting.

  
America had also had his similar moments, but had never received such grotesque and spectacular wounds as Russia, but this was probably because in war, while fighting alongside his children he was more cautious than the Slavic giant, who instead preferred to throw himself headfirst in the battles not caring about his human body safety, because he knew that none of the wounds he’d ever get were truly permanent.  
Which was really strange to think of, as Russia was always extremely cautious and careful in any other situation.  
  
But America wasn't here where he was now to think about Russia, he had other things to do. Or to be more specific he had to meet a certain Cuban, and find out what the hell he wanted. Above all, hoping that the aforementioned Cuban didn't just want to yell at him, as usual, to 'scold' him for his position and decision as if he were a nation with more experience than him.

  
America really hoped  he hadn't called him to 'scold him' because  he really didn't have the patience to put up with it if  he did. While he would most likely have endured it anyway, he knew that Cuba only behaved that way because he was taking his role as 'big brother', even though he was technically younger than him, very seriously. Also, since it would be just the two of them and no other nation, they wouldn't have to pretend to hate each other which was a good thing for America, he hated pretending to hate his brother just because the relationship between their two states was…  _abysmal_ .  
  
Another couple of twists and turns and America came to the building where was located the apartment, or rather the penthouse, that Cuba owned in Downtown Washington DC, registered under his human name and of which no nation knew existed, and America preferred it that way.

  
At least he and his brother had a private place to meet without attracting anyone's attention, so America would not have to justify himself if anyone ever found out that he and Cuba had talked.  
Other nations knew how to be incredibly annoying when they believed they had a 'reason' to be concerned, especially England, who loved to treat him as if he were a child whenever he believed he was right.  
  
America parked the Lada Niva in the building's underground car park, his movements quick but mechanical while his mind was elsewhere, specifically focused to recalling all the times that the British had treated him as if he were still a colony. Once the off-road vehicle was locked, he returned to reality enough to convince his escort, using some of his national voice, to let him go on his own and headed into the lobby of the building, careful to remain as hidden as possible from the gaze of his citizens who now knew his face and so no longer instinctively ignored him. Despite this, with a little attention, America managed to reach the elevator while remaining perfectly unseen.  
Upon reaching the elevator, he pressed the number that corresponded to the penthouse floor, fortunately no one else entered the elevator, and then waited.  
  
After a few moments, since the building didn’t have many floors given the limitations placed on the height of the buildings in his capital, the elevator doors opened, Cuba reached him before they even opened completely. Which worried America a little, given that, among his siblings (not considering Canada), Cuba was the most calm and poised.  
  
“Alfred!" Cuba exclaimed with a small smile, which barely calmed America's agitation, before holding him in one of his suffocating hugs. America smiled, _maybe his previous nervousness was for nothing_ , Cuba was just happy to be able to talk to him privately, where they didn't have to keep their masks.  
  
“Juàn” he greeted him in turn “How are you?" He then asked as they dissolved the embrace.  
  
“ _Bien, bien_ … you?" Cuba replied, even if his words didn’t seem to be completely… _true_ , America decided to accept his answer as they left the anteroom where the elevator was and entered the actual penthouse, the open space, with only a small half wall dividing the living room from the kitchen, was in a modern style as Cuba preferred, even if the colors did not correspond to the normal modern style, since together with the monochrome black and white there were also other shades such as orange and red.  
  
America sighed as he sat down on the sofa, the exhaustion of the past few weeks suddenly prominent in his mind. “Not very well, I'm tired and the last time I slept was like two weeks ago, if we don't consider the half attempt of a nap I had this morning while waiting for the coffee to be ready."  
  
A certain concern for his well-being appeared in Cuba's gaze at his words. “You should take better care of yourself, Al." He said then a small smile curled his lips. “Unless you want to see me pop up in the White House to remind you to sleep."  
  
America smiled at the scene that came to his mind at those words. “No! No, I will go to sleep I promise! I mean, do you want to imagine what the tabloids would say if you did what you just said?" A small half laugh left his lips at the thought. “Probably something like: ’ _Mysterious Cuban ambassador sighted in the White House. Communists in power or senseless rumors?_ '"  
  
Cuba also laughed at his joke, or perhaps at the tone in which he had pronounced it, then the two began to tell each other the latest news, the things that had happened to them as people and not nations or personifications and all in all, despite America wanting to try to keeping his guard up even with Cuba, the friendly conversation they were having managed to get him to lower it, making him just relax.

  
It was always nice to be able to talk to his brother, because yes, Cuba was really his brother not like Canada, Cuba had not betrayed him by calling his Conqueror,  _father_ , as Canada did with France and England, no, America and Cuba were more on the same wave line when it came to their colonial past.  
  
“Uh, Juàn? Everything good? You fell silent all of a sudden” America asked, for a few moments Cuba did not even react to his words, continuing to stare at the cup of coffee in his hands, –he had gone to prepare it a few moments before, America had cordially refused, and then told him that 'he had already drunk too much coffee during the day '–, then the Cuban looked up to meet  his eyes , a certain seriousness in his gaze.  
  
“Yes, yes…" the other answered, but his tone did not convince America at all.  
  
“Juàn-" America only started to be interrupted by the Cuban, and while this annoyed him he said nothing against the interruption.  
  
“Alfred, do you remember what you told me?"  
  
America just raised an eyebrow, confused by Cuba's question.  
  
“In 2013, when your President of that period met  mine …"  
  
America remained silent, trying to remember exactly what the Cuban was referring to, for a long moment nothing came to his memory, and this frustrated him, as well as worried him because as a personification he had an almost perfect memory so  _why he could not remember something so recent?_   
  
A sad smile curled Cuban lips. “You don't remember that, do you?" He asked, but he didn't seem to expect an answer from his tone. “Not so surprising, your recent ex-President,  the one who  just passed away, that  _Redrun_ -" Cuba's tone filled with contempt as he uttered the surname of  America’s ex-President. "-he did everything  he could to make you forget, to erase everything his predecessor had done."  
  
And maybe it was those words that made everything click into place, or maybe America was finally able to remember. Because now he knew what Cuba was referring to. “Are you talking about the embargo?"

Cuba nodded. “Do you remember what you told me? That your President would have lifted it, but he only relieved it and then the _other one_ came and the situation became a _disaster_. My entire economy is standing only because China and Venezuela are helping me as best they can, and I know it's not your fault… but Alfred you have to… you have to lift the embargo _for me_ …"  
  
America didn’t say a thing, remaining silent not even a  word left his lips, too shocked, too betrayed to think of saying anything. _Cuba… had Cuba called him just for this? Did his brother call him because he wanted him to do something for him?! Had he just called him for his own purposes? No… No, Juàn would never have done this to him… he would never have used him as the others had done in the past. That was not his character. No, Juàn would never, ever do it… he wasn't like them, he wasn't like everyone else. He and Margarita, Mexico, were the only ones who would never use him for his power… right?_ _Or had Juàn really called him only because he had now the power to lift that damned embargo? Was he really worth so little in his eyes, even when he had the gal to call him brother?_  
  
"-fred! _Alfred_!" Cuba’s voice brought him back to reality, the Cuban had moved away from him, his eyes wide and frightened, his face, neck and hands red, red in the way his skin reddened when it remained too close, too long with something boiling hot. And only then did America realize how hot the air had become around himself, as hot as if he had hot coals placed around himself, like in a furnace.

  
America took a few breaths and slowly the air temperature returned to normal. _Uh, he had never lost control that much, not since he first became a_ _Superpower_ _and even then he hadn't lost control that much, without even realizing it.  
What was happening to him? Before not being able to remember something that had happened recently and now this… Maybe he __really_ _was too tired._  
  
America took another breath and then met the gaze, still scared of Cuba, with his which was now as cold as ice, the spark of friendliness that had been there until recently completely gone. The Superpower stood up.  
“I will not lift the embargo." Was all he said coldly, perhaps too cruel, perhaps too vindictive, maybe he was letting his slight paranoia and feeling of betrayal guiding. He didn’t care, he would not allow anyone to use him, ever again, be it by another nation or a human being, he had learned his lesson from his latest President.  
  
The fear in Cuba's gaze gave way to shock and confusion. “ _What_? You said if you had the chance you would! You promised! Alfred-"  
  
America ignored the words of the other starting to walk towards the anteroom, interrupting him only when he heard him call his human name. “It is America, for you, _Cuba_."  
  
“ _Hermano_ , what? We are brothers… not… I don't understand Alfred… _why_?" Asked the Cuban, confusion and sadness evident in his voice. But America didn’t allow himself to be touched by the other’s emotions, if Cuba had really loved him, really had thought of him as a brother, he would never have tried to use him as others had done.  
  
“No, we are not. You wouldn't have tried to use me for my power if we were." He answered, while not turning around, continuing to walk, Cuba tried to stop him, taking him by the wrist but America quickly freed himself from the grip. “Don't touch me. Try it one more time and I swear you will _regret it_." He said, throwing a cold and fulminating look at the Cuban. Then he went to the elevator, ignoring Cuba’s calls of his name and ignoring his pathetic excuses. Because he knew that all the ‘I’m not trying to use you.’s, the ‘Hermano, please listen to me! That was not what I meant!’s were just excuses, now Cuba was just trying to get back in his good graces as every single other nation did every time they realized that they had fucked up too much with him and that he had the power of wiping them off the map if he wanted, even though they thought that he’d never use it.

Cuba had just realized that he had fucked up badly, he didn’t mean a thing of what he was saying.

As the doors closed America sent one last chilling look at his ‘brother’, almost revelling in the fear he saw arise in the others eyes,  _was he really this scary?_ A little smirk bent his lips.

_Well, let the bastard be afraid then. In fact, he should be._   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Human name I've given Cuba(since he doesn't have a canon one yet) is: Yuàn Alvarez, though during the Presidency of Fidel Castro, his name was Yuàn Castro.


	11. There was Darkness in your heart… and I let it out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ukraine goes to confront Russia about the Annexation of Belarus… _things don’t go as she expected them to_.

Ukraine was shocked, terrified, immensely worried and, at the same time, _furious_.

She couldn't believe that Russia was so blinded by his desire to reform  _his_ _goddamn_ _ed_ _Union_ that he not only threatened her weeks ago, but also manipulated their little sister into annexing her.

_How could he?_

The little Vanya she remembered would never  have done something so horrible, but then, the sweet little Vanya she remembered was gone. He had disappeared years ago, when he had stripped himself of his imperial luster and had begun to fight with the masses, when spitting blood, he had ordered them to kill and hunt the nobles, perhaps  her sweet Vanya had died at the exact moment he, out of control on his own being driven only by his people's desire to see imperial blood  be spilled , had let his throat be cut by the hungry and desperate crowd.

But only now did Ukraine realize it, only now, before she had been blinded by her deep affection, but now she could see the…  _monster_ who was wearing her brother's body like a macabre costume, an  _obyasnik_ who was using the  Ivan’s image to get what  it wanted.

_Power_ . Because that was what he wanted:  _power over everything, over everyone._ And he didn't care if he had to use his sisters to get  it , even though perhaps he didn't even see them as sisters anymore, Ukraine thought, now they were just pawns in his eyes, pieces to move in his game against the world.

Ukraine had asked for help from the EU, from America  himself , but  her words were not heard. ' _Russia will not move west_ ' England had said, certain and sure as if he had looked into the future and saw that nothing would happen that he had feared until recently. But she knew, she knew that the others had let themselves be lulled by the fact that until now Russia had not lifted a finger  against them, because they did not know that this was the way Russia played  his games, initially  letting others to leave him behind only to prove at the end that he had always been five steps ahead of everyone else.

It was with that, with his painstaikingly slow, but never stopping planning that  Russia was slowly tearing regions from her, influencing her people, but even if  he continued, Ukraine  wouldn’t let the thought of that part of her people, who were betraying her for him, to sway her way of thinking.

A  slash of frozen wind brought her back to reality, the  Sunflowers’ Palace was now a few meters away, a bastion of wealth in the middle of absolute nothingness. 

A cold shiver ran down her spine,  as the words that Russia had addressed to her, the last time they had seen each other, reappeared in her mind, the coldness with which  he had spoken  her , smiling at her terror. A drop of doubt arose in  her mind,  _was_ _she_ _… doing what Russia hoped for? Show up alone in_ _his_ _palace, far from any form of civilization…_ _No_ , Ukraine shook her head as if to chase those thoughts away,  _and even if it was she_ _would save her sister from Russia's clutches at any cost_ .

Despite her doubts and fears, Ukraine kept walking towards the palace. The snow crunched under  her boots and the wind whistled between the sharp rocks and icy peaks lifting the snow into the air, making it sparkle like glitter in the faint rays of the sun covered mostly by clouds, Ukraine hoped there would be no blizzard,  she could not imagine staying in the  Sunflowers’ Palace  any longer than  she had to .

The Ukrainian finally reached the entrance of the building, and without doubting a second more, knocked on the door with one of the door’s knockers, the metal so cold that she could feel the temperature even through her gloves.

She banged the knocker against the door,  _once_ ,  _twice_ , staring at the inlays that branched off the heavy dark wooden door for a few moments,  her hand still wrapped around the ring shaped to form bundles of wheat.

Only silence followed the thuds, and for a moment Ukraine wondered if they hadn't heard it. It was possible, the building was large, huge, the house of a giant and past the second floor it was difficult to hear the sounds coming from the atrium, even from the  underground floor it was difficult to hear what  happened on the first floor and vice versa.

Ukraine let a few more moments pass before starting to knock again, pausing, and managing to get her hand out of the door just in time, while one of the double doors was opened.

Belarus, Natalia, her sweet little sister, was at the door, instead of her usual blue dress she wore a long dress of an indefinable shade of  color so pale as to appear white with lacy edges of snow white, on the skirt and bodice of the dress there were small golden floral decorations and instead of the blue bow, on  her head,  she had a black one.

Ukraine smiled at her and Belarus, in response, gave her a dark, almost angry look.

"What are you doing here, Iryna?" Belarus asked, without even allowing her to enter despite the cold winter outside.

"I'm here to talk to Vanya." she answered as innocently as possible, she didn't know what kind of nonsense Russia had told her to turn her against her, and she didn't want to infuriate her little sister when in fact  she was trying to save her from the real monster.

" _Vanya_ ?"  Belarus repeated incredulously, then  her voice became colder and sharper. “You have no right to call him that, not after leaving him alone. And he doesn't want to talk to you, so go! "

"Natalia, don't… I need to talk to him, it's  _important_ ."  reiterated  Ukraine, wounded by the coldness with which her sister was treating her, but not blaming her, in fact the real fault was Russia's, not hers.

"If it's really that important, you can go home and contact his President." Belarus retorted "As you know, Vanya, has no longer control over anything in his Government since the fall of the Soviet Union."

_As if it were true…_ "Natalia, you know it's not true." Ukraine said, unable to hold back a note of poison in her tone. "Russia has all the control  he wants, if  he hadn't, your annexation would never have happened."

Belarus's gaze became even darker, "The Annexation happened because my people wanted it. Haven't you heard, Iryna? There was a referendum, they decided. "

"You and I know  that’s not true…"

A shadow appeared behind Belarus, as tall as a bear and then a snow-white hand rested on the shoulder of the younger nation, now a region. Instead of becoming tense or startled with surprise, Belarus smiled, almost leaning back against the newly arrived Russia.

Ukraine cast an almost disturbed look at her two  siblings ,  _for sure Russia hadn't managed in a couple of weeks to completely bend Belarus to_ _his_ _will, right?_

"Iryna." Russia said,  his voice flat, so impersonal it made her shiver. "To what do we owe the  _pleasure_ of your visit?"

Ukraine remained silent, almost not hearing the Russian's question,  her attention monopolized by the fact that Belarus had just leaned against Russia which in response, as if it were the most natural and  _normal_ thing in the world, had let  his arm slide diagonally  over her chest, holding her tighter, closer to him, in a way that seemed more suited to two…  _partners_ than to brother and sister.

With a great effort he managed to shift his gaze from that to Russia's eyes.

"We need to talk, Vanya."

"I told you you have no right to call him that!" Belarus snarled, protective as she had always been, but now the sight of her protective nature, disturbed Ukraine. _Surely Russia hadn't managed to ruin_ _her, to make her his puppet,_ _in such a short time… right?_

Russia chuckled softly at  her exclamation. “It's okay, Natalyushka. It's okay, it doesn't offend me. " he said, his voice completely different from that monotonous impersonal sound from before, now it sounded lower, sweeter, more like the Vanya that Ukraine remembered being the monster  she was sure  he was. Then he turned to her, his eyes cold again as the snow that surrounded  his palace, but far less pure. “You want to talk, Iryna. Then let's talk. " he said, before a cold smile curled his lips. “But first, please,  come in . Never let it be that you think I'm a bad host." said those words Russia moved, Belarus with him still almost-embraced, almost- too  close to him.

Despite  herself , Ukraine entered. Having to hold back a shiver as the door closed behind  her .

"You can take off the ushanka. Do you still remember where the guest closet room is, _da_? You can put it there with your coat, I don't want you to catch something as soon as you leave my home, it would be… _terrible_.” Russia began, his voice now friendly, too friendly, too far from his usual character, making her feel more uncomfortable than with the monotonous tone of a few moments before. “Normally, I would also ask you to take off your boots too but _I wasn't expecting any guests_ and I really don't have any house slippers to offer you… Also I doubt you're here for an informal visit, _da_? So I just ask you to be careful not to wet the carpets too much with snow. " he continued, as he said this he loosened the almost-embrace, almost-grip he had on Belarus, whom gave him a somewhat confused look, before just shaking her head and smiling, as if she was blindly trusting whatever plan Russia was coming up with in that moment.

Ukraine simply nodded at the  other’s words , before turning away from him to go into the closet room as the other had defined it, which was located in a corner of the hall, not exactly near the door but along the same wall. As she walked away, Russia informed her that they would meet in the Oak  Parlor .

The closet room was…  _exactly as_ _she_ _remembered it,_ largely empty except for the various coat hangers and hat racks and the three wardrobes leaning against the wall, it was also as dark as  she remembered it, but Ukraine didn't even try to turn on the light,  she knew how move in there. After placing the ushanka on one of the various hat racks present,  she took off  her coat, and as  she went to hang it  she realized that one of the hangers was still full. The hanging coats were all now considered vintage, in the old Soviet style, one of  them was much smaller than the others and had a burgundy accent around the sleeves and the collar, it was the Latvia’ s coat. And the other two were: Lithuania’ s and Estonia’ s . For a single instant, Ukraine felt as if she had stepped back in time, as if at any moment she would see the three trembling, but  not frightened never frightened (because Russia would have preferred to take a barrage of bullets from an RPD in  the  chest rather than letting his ' _family_ ' be harmed) Baltics come in, to hastily put on their coats as they followed Russia for this and that task.

Ukraine placed her coat near the ushanka and left the closet room as if she were running away from something, from a memory. From the thought that maybe… _Russia was not a monster as she thought and that perhaps she had let herself be persuaded by the thought of her citizens more than she wanted to admit._

* * *

Just like the rest of the building, the  Oak Parlor was almost exactly as Ukraine remembered it. The walls  tinted in pale robin egg blue decorated with silver boisseries and portraits of rulers who have now  been dead for centuries who judged  her with their eyes painted in oil, the room was illuminated by the three large windows that gave on the outside, the largest of the windows, that central  one , was framed by red velvet  curtains , fastened by cords and rosettes in the shape of a star. The large emerald green carpet covered much of the ebony parquet, and on it were the various armchairs and sofas of the  parlor , all in solid carved wood and green velvet cushions.

Russia was waiting for her, sitting in the armchair closest to the central window, the tails of his scarf, the one she had knitted for him and which had grown with him once it became the representation of one of his regions, hanging over the floor. In front of him, on the small table that divided his armchair from another, was a silver tray, with wavy edges modeled to simulate fabric, in the center of the tray a _samovar_ with a teapot on top, both silver decorated in Khokhloma style, with blue flowers and silver stems on a black background, and two cups in the same decorative style, as well as three containers with: honey, sugar and jam. On both sides of the samovar there were two three tiered-trays, one with biscuits and sweets of various kinds and one with small sandwiches.

_Belarus was nowhere_ _she could see_.

"You should consider yourself lucky that, however angry she is with you,  _Byelarus_ ' is willing to give you her place. Since you showed up without warning, "Russia said without even taking  his eyes off the window, how he had noticed  her and seen how  he was turned was a mystery.

"I didn't want to give you time to prepare some excuse, Russia," Ukraine said cautiously as she approached.

Russia barely laughed at  her answer, cold as the wind blowing outside, banging against the frozen glass. “As if  I need it, Iryna. As you know…  _I don't like to lie._ "

" Unless you gain something from doing it."

Russia said nothing in response, simply motioning her to sit down, Ukraine refused.

“I'm not here to have tea with you, Russia. I'm here to talk. "

Russia  tsked at  her words. “ _You really are worse than the Tartars_ ,  _moya dorogaya._ You show up uninvited, you refuse the tea…"he remarked with disappointment" But if you just want to talk then, talk. Tell me why you are here. "

While he waited for  her answer, the Russian began to make himself a cup of tea, with a calm that Ukraine found almost…  _irritating_ .  _Did Russia really consider her so weak,_ _so not-threatening,_ _that_ _he_ _didn't even see her as a possible threat while being so close to_ _him_ _?_

"You know why I'm here… you annexed Belarus, our sister…"

"- my sister," he interrupted, as he stirred a teaspoon of honey into his tea

" _She’s_ _my sister too, Vanya!_ Just because you have decided that I am no longer your family does not mean that you have any right to tell me who and who I do not consider as part of my family! "

"Oh,  and w _hat a_ _great sister you are, Iryna!_ You cut off  any  contact with her because she still spoke to me, you never deigned to help her and the only thing you did was support anyone who wanted to sanction her for alleged violations of this and that thing. " Russia said, remaining calm, as if nothing troubled him. Now he was really starting to irritate her with that attitude.

“I have no choice with whom or with whom not to speak, Russia, you know that. And I did everything I could, it's not my fault that I can do only so much… in fact _it's your fault_ "

" _My_ _fault_ _?_ " Russia asked, turning to look at her for the first time since she had entered the  parlor room.

“Da, _yours_! You and your bloody Soviet administration, _you ruined everything_! And I don't even know how-"

Russia put the cup on the tray, slowly rising from the chair, the look in  his eyes was so dark and cloudy that Ukraine wasn't even sure  he was really seeing  her .

"’ _I ruined_ _everything_ ?’" he repeated his tone still calm but incredibly colder " _Me_ ? After all I've done for you? The modernization I brought to your country? The schools? Health  sistem ? After I made Kiev the fourth most important city in Europe? After all my sacrifices, after all the work and the sleepless days spent working to help you become more than the ' _Granary of Europe_ ', you dare tell me that it was I who ruined everything? "

“You only did it because it was good for you! And don't talk to me in that tone, I am no longer a region in _your_ _damned_ _Union_! _You have no power over me!_ " she yelled back, albeit taking a step back as he started to approach.

Russia laughed coldly. "That's the problem, huh? The real problem is that you never accepted that  _I am the one who always had the power in our little family_ , isn't it Iryna?" he said, taking a step further, Kamchatka's tails floating in the air. “Oh, that's the problem isn't it?  _Poor little Ukraine… she never got what she wanted, and now she is jealous._ ”  he added  his voice grew louder and more  high in tone , in a way that Ukraine hadn't heard in a long time. That cruel, childish little voice that left his mouth every time he was about to do something terribl e, _a sign that his brother wasn't really quite there_ .

Ukraine took a step back every time he took a step forward, almost tripping over the carpet. “Vanya, _Vanyushka_ , I'm not jealous… I'm… I'm just worried, da? For you, for Natalia…” she said, trying to keep her voice constant, her righteous fury once again giving way to fear.

"And why should you? Natalyushka is safe… She doesn't have to worry about anything anymore, I'll give her everything she needs, and she'll be by my side… _forever_. "

“Vanya, you can't keep her forever… that would be cruel. Da, cruel… "

"And what do you know about what is cruel and what is not?" Your idea of affection is to abandon your siblings, because _you are jealous of them_. Because you are not even capable of being a personification when you are alone. Ukrainians would do better to be Russians than to continue existing under your name!"

And then the fear of Ukraine returned to fury, at the insinuation that Russia had made.  She took a step towards Russia,  not caring of the cold air around him that seemed to want to freeze her alive. "If it wasn't for me, you would have disappeared before you  even  became something,  _Russia_ ." she retorted. "That day, centuries ago, I should have let you die." she spat, her voice poisonous and sharp as a spear.

_She realized she had said the wrong thing the moment the last word left her mouth._

Russia stopped short, looking at her with dark yet hurt eyes. Vanya, her sweet little brother so evident in the bearing of Russia that Ukraine deeply regretted those words  she had just spoken. And then…

_Crack_.

The reinforced glass panes of the windows began to crack with the force of the wind rushing against them, the air immediately around Russia so cold it had begun to thicken with crystals of water vapor,  his eyes  glowed, like purple embers and  the smile on  his face, which had replaced the look of shock and betrayal that had been on his face before, was so wide and static  that it hurt to watch .

Never before has Ukraine been reminded of how little human there was in them, never like now when Russia really looked like some inhuman being wearing a human body like a costume.

"You know, maybe you're right." he said, his voice still high-pitched far from his normal baritone. “Maybe you really should have let me die. _Well, it's too late now._ "

Ukraine only had time to try to run away, before Russia grabbed her by the neck,  his grip stronger than it had ever been before, even when they had fought against each other.

“Don't worry, Iryna, I'll take care of your people. _You don't have to worry about anything anymore…_ "

The pressure on  her neck increased and increased. And then Ukraine was shrouded in darkness.

* * *

Russia let go of the now inert European nation. He had maybe two hours, depending on how strong Ukraine actually was, to complete the next step of his new, slightly adjusted, plan before she woke up. Honestly he hadn't wanted to do any of this, his original plan was to slowly convince his older sister to join his new Union but she had forced his hand with that 'I _should have let you die_ '.

_ How could  she ? They were brothers and she… she had just admitted that she would have preferred that he never existed, that the  himself that  he  was now should never have existed…  _

Russia just shook  his head, chasing away the thought. At the moment he had to take care of something, for… there was time later for emotions  and feelings .  _Later,_ he told himself blinking to chase away the tears.  _Later_ , he repeated,  _later maybe never_ . _Yes, never confronting those emotions about how his sister’s words had made him feel, felt like a good plan._

He picked up his cell phone and carefully dialed the number for the line reserved for personifications of Ukraine’s President.

"I am the Personification of the Russian Federation" he replied as soon as the man at the other end of the call took the call "Da, Ukraine is here with me… ; Nyet, she is not well, in fact she asked me to help her for a while until she recovered… ;  Da, I know it sounds incredible, but in addition to our National relationships she is still my sister, I'm doing  this as a  _brother_ not as a personification. …; Da, that would be perfect.… ; Of course, I'm just working on  her behalf, I'll listen to  her every word. …;  _Spasybo_ . …;  Of course, I don't want to disturb you any further, we'll talk more in detail tomorrow. " after some brief pleasantries, Russia closed the call, smiling broadly. Manipulating human beings was always too easy, it was enough simply to leverage on the fact that even the personifications were after all human beings to have their complete understanding. Besides… it had been much faster than he had expected. Half an hour of phone call more or less…  _Ukraine really needed a better_ _President_ _._

Another smile, slightly more wicked, curled his lips.

Russia dialed another number and soon a voice answered.

“Yes, _Latvia_ , do you remember that favor you owe me? Now, I know how you can pay it back. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp...Ukraine did mess up badly with those last words didn't she? 
> 
> Little notes/curiosities for this chapter: 
> 
> _Obyasnik_ : or obayasnyk(in russian) also called Огненный змей which means fiery snake more or less, is a creature from the slavic folklore that would take the form of a recently deceased groom(or fiancé) to ensnare their bride, and take their innocence. It's actually more of a incubus like figure... but in this case I used the idea as it being more like Ukraine thinking of that because in his quest for power, Russia was ruining the innocence of their familial bond as he used it for his gains. Curiosity you could discover if your returned groom was a obayasnyk by feeling if they had a spine, as the obayasnyk didn't have one.
> 
>  _RPD_ : The RPD is a 7.62mm light machine gun developed in the Soviet Union by Vasily Degtyaryov for the 7.62×39mm M43 intermediate cartridge. It was succeeded in Soviet service by the RPK in the Sixities. 
> 
> _"You really are worse than the Tartars"_ : this phrase is a reference to a Russian saying which is: «незваный гость хуже татарина»(The uninvited guest is worse than the Tartars). About this Russians are like the most curteous and kind hosts that there could be, Russia is just being a dick to Ukraine because he know she is not there to be a guest but only to bring discussions into his home.


	12. Choosing the best side (Italy's Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italy is the first to realize that the impasse, the balance that had existed until then between the two greatest world Powers is about to collapse, once and for all, so he decides to do what he does best, tilt the scale in his favor, siding with the one who will most likely be the winner, but who is between _Russia and America_?

Contrary to what other personifications believed Italy was not an idiot, on the contrary he certainly tended to be more  observant than other nations who  believed themselves to be at the peak of their strength, or near the peak of their strength.

It was just that unlike many of them, Italy preferred to stay behind the scenes, watching the show, or the tragedy, unfold under his eyes and then join in the end, once he is certain of the result, joining the part that ends up earning more.

It was a habit he took  after …  _after the clear errors of judgment of his predecessors_ , because while Italy, the new Italy, a personification that represented a work that had taken centuries to accomplish by finally reuniting the two parts of the same nation, while this Italy could have the same  aspect of North Italy, except for his eyes that instead of being amber were orange, the color of the last sunset or a fire that burned and  _burned,_ consuming everything to let new life blossom from the ashes, he was not North Italy.

And at the same time  he was not even South Italy, even if  he shared some characteristics with him.

Romolo Italo Vargas, personification of the New United Italy,  he  could resemble his predecessors in appearance, and even in memories, after all he remembered everything they had experienced. Despite this, Italy  didn’t  see  himself as…  _a continuation of their existence_ , he was  _something_ new and… he  despised ,  _hated_ with all his heart the fact that other nations simply considered him a mix between the two old Italy,  _because he_ _wasn’t_ !

Italy squeezed the pencil he had in his hands so hard that  it broke in two, completely shattering the part that had been between his fingers, graphite dust and wood spread over the drawing he was sketching.

It was the face of someone who came from memories of North Italy, Feliciano, ancient memories, stained with melancholy that  Romolo could not even recall in their entirety, not that he wanted to, even though he liked to remember how that vague melancholy period had ended:  _drowned in the blood of Liberation._

_ Italy wanted to experience another moment like that. _

Live it personally, not indirectly through the memories of those who once were Italy.

Every so often when thoughts like this arose in his mind, Italy couldn't help but wonder if by chance this newfound combativeness was due to reunification, if the spirit of the Roman Empire had gathered in him, while it  had been divided, shattered. so much  in his predecessors that they couldn't hear it,  that they couldn’t hear  _that call_ .

_That call to_ … Romolo wasn't even sure what… he was just sure of his distant desire to fight, to assert himself. To remind other nations that Italy had never been a coward.

His troops, – _of Feliciano and Romano… it didn't matter,_ they didn't  matter anymore… _they no longer existed, only he existed_ –, they had stood up to the Soviets where not even the Germans and their ' _superior techniques and machines_ ' could.  His citizens had cleared an entire city  from the German battalions in just four hours, armed only with rifles and shovels and pitchforks.

If there was one thing that Italy, Romolo, was certain about was that the  Italians liked to have the upper hand, they liked to fight, but the previous two personifications had been t _oo weak, too divided_ to be able to harbor that flame, making it fade  evermore .

_ Well, he was going to revive it. As much as he could. _

Italy got up from his desk, throwing the pieces of the pencil into a nearby  bin , looking for a moment at the drawing he had drawn absently so far, that face… it reminded him of someone,  _someone important_ … meeting the gaze, smudged with graphite of the drawing, he remembered a flash of blue, eyes so clear they seemed almost transparent, an indistinct but soft voice saying: ' _Don't forget me, Italy. I will be back soon._ '; a smile…

Italy took the sheet  of paper by tearing it from the sketch pad, crumpling it up and throwing it where he had thrown the pencil. He didn't care about  Feliciano’s  stupid memories,  _in all probability that someone he remembered had also disappeared centuries ago…_

A small trill, coming from his cell phone, distracted him from that thought and from the anger and melancholy that was making him mount inside.

It was a little notice he had left.

_Right, he had a meeting to go to_ .

* * *

Luigi Velliarmino was the kind of person who could be defined as…  _magnetic_ , he was able to attract attention wherever he went and to enchant even the most difficult to convince with his cleverly  chosen  words and constructed speeches.

He was the kind of person that Italy wanted at the head of his  Government , if he could decide for himself and were not forced to leave the choice in the hands of his citizens.

Fortunately, nowhere in the  Vow of Nations, or in  his Constitution, was it written that Italy could not…  _speak with other members of_ _his_ _Parliament_ .

He just couldn't reveal who he was, but that didn't mean that… he couldn't even make him understand, after all he had only  Sworn not to say it directly, he never even said anything about… ' _accidentally_ '  letting him understand  who he was .

Italy smiled, he loved to find quibbles and ways to circumvent contracts.  _He really loved it_ .

Luigi Velliarmino, future President of the Council of Ministers, was waiting for him in the usual place where they usually met, a small restaurant just outside Turin, the establishment was family-run, and the family that ran it was…  _very discreet_ and also preferred not to poking his nose into the issues of Italy too much.  _Plus the food was delicious!_ Homemade and not overly decorated but with little substance as in many luxury restaurants where Italy had to go with 'his colleagues'.

"Mr. Vargas!" the owner greeted him, a genuine smile on her face as soon as the nation entered the building.

Italy returned the greeting with the same genuineness, talking a bit with the owner while  she led him to his usual table, where Luigi Velliarmino was already waiting for him.

Italy took his place and after a last and pleasant farewell, the owner left them telling them that  she would soon send a waiter to take their orders.

"Mr. Velliarmino" Italy said by way of greeting. "I hope I haven't made  you wait too long."

"Oh? No, no,  you are on time as always, it is I who arrived a little early. You know to avoid traffic… "the man said "Oh and, please, call me Luigi, I think… we know each other well enough to let go of the pleasantries, don't you agree? "

A smirk curled Italy's lips. "Of course. But in that case, you can call me Romolo… Or  _Italo_ , if you prefer. "

Luigi smiled, in that way that gave his smile  the appearance of a smirk and at the same time keeping it completely genuine. And Italy was certain that the man had grasped what he really meant.

"I must say,  _Italo_ , you are not what I expected."

Italy's expression was tinged with a note of surprise. "Oh?"

“To be honest, I don't even know what I expected. Maybe someone who seemed closer in age to our dear President of the Republic than someone so… _young_. "

" _It’s_ _always the age._ " Italy said, a note of amusement in the tone. “The first thing, you  people notice, I mean, is always my apparent age. And  not ... I don't know the fact that my eyes are the furthest thing from  _normal_ that can exist. "

"Oh, I… I didn't even notice." the man answered, first surprised, then confused as to how he hadn't noticed such an obvious feature.

“Don't worry, it's normal. I tend not to… _attract too much attention._ " another smile curled Italy's lips.

They then had to interrupt their conversation for a moment when the waiter arrived, and after ordering they resumed it. Moving from the previous topic and delving deeper into what they had organized this meeting for.

Honestly, Italy thought that there was nothing better than discussing politics by accompanying the conversation with a good glass of rosé wine, between a good first course and a second course.

"Um, I don't think America is the best ally at the moment," Italy reflected, regarding Luigi's proposal to get closer to the  Superpower . “Maybe  he was  _in the past_ , but now? With the  giant debt weighing on his head? "

"So what do you suggest, Italo?" asked the man interested "After all, with  his bases in our… your territory, we certainly can't turn our backs on  him without consequences."

A smirk folded Italy's lips,  his orange eyes shining with indefinable emotion, like someone who has read the rules of a game so many times to memorize them and know how to get around them, without technically breaking them. "I never said we had to turn our backs on him, we don't know if America will recover, and believe me I've seen him do it more than once so I have no doubt he can do it again. But you know… with his new  _condition…_ he is at a disadvantage." a little pause "On the other hand, Russia…  _Russia is more active than_ _he_ _has been in recent centuries_ . It seems that the Old Bear of the East has decided to wake up, and has chosen the perfect time to do so. " Italy's smile  got a slight sharper edge, making Italy look almost dangerous "So perfect that it almost seems…  _that he made it happen_ ."

" You think …?"

“Oh, I don't think, _I'm sure_. Russia may be, pardon my french, an old bastard, but he is a clever, old bastard. He has probably been planning all this since the fall of his precious Union, perhaps even earlier, when he saw the scale begin to tilt in America's favor. "

Luigi was silent for a moment looking surprised, Italy  didn’t  find his surprise, strange, he knew how difficult it was for humans to understand how time moves for nations, like something that seemed like a lifetime of planning was nothing in the big scheme of things for a nation. "It's… a long time  to be planning something."

"Russia is old enough to  be able to afford it, plus he's not the type to rest on his laurels and let others make the choices for him."

"You seem  to …  _admire him a lot._ " Luigi observed.

“Well, it's hard not to. He went from a backward nation that was behind every other to a burgeoning Empire that could stand up to the British Empire, and then from a decaying Empire to one of the world's Industrial Powers, and even after being knocked out, taken in, kicked and almost broken, he simply held his head up and took back his place, you people, may not call him a Superpower anymore, but we know he is." Italy explained "To be honest there is a lot to admire in him, not to mention the fact that he is slowly recovering even _what was his:_ Chechnya, Crimea and recently Belarus. He's playing the long game and he's been doing it for years, passing under everyone's radar… as I said, he's smart. "

"And you would like to ally with him?"

Italy shook  his head. “No, don't  ally with him . If I did and then turned my back on  him , Russia would make sure that my name no longer exists on the map, and  he has the capacity,  in  one way or another. So, no, I don't want an alliance… but a friendship.  _A partnership_ . "

"Even so the problem of the American bases, and of our position in NATO does not change…"

Italy nodded. "It's true," he admitted, before taking a small sip of his wine that had been forgotten there. "But I can't, so to speak, ' _face the problem_ ' without making America  see that I'm turning my back on  him ."

"It looks like we're really stuck, we want to leave the sinking ship…  _but we can't._ "

Italy nodded, remaining silent. He really wanted to find a solution, by now in his mind he was sure that the part of America was the one  that would lose, Russia would come out victorious this time. The problem was that he did not want to turn his back on America in case he was wrong, and the other had captured him in his web, preventing him from any possibility of movement without making a final decision.

There seemed to be no way around  his problems this time around.

_He had to choose._ _But who_ _? Russia or America?_

Italy thought of all the times he had interacted with the two personifications, both as himself and as his two predecessors.

From what he remembered, although relations between his country and America were considered friendly, he and America weren't that close. Above all, Romolo could not help but think of their presentation, back in 1851, with America refusing to apologize for the death of 11  Italians in his territory, after his people had lynched them. Italy  then remembered all the times America had invented an excuse or had directly refused to help him.

_As if he_ _had been taking_ _their alliance for granted._

When instead he thought about the relationships between him and Russia, Romolo could only think of their deep friendship.  Their mutual understanding, to how Italy had always been on Russia's side, always the first to speak in  his favor, when the Empire was founded and when it collapsed, ready to support the Soviet Union and then the Federation.

And at the same time, he remembered Russia recognizing  his Independence from the Austrians, when no one wanted to support him, he remembered the day when Russia, then Soviet Union, had come to meet him when the Kingdom of Italy had fallen, and  he had been there to  congratulate and hug him and celebrate for being able to free himself from the ' _Imperials_ ', as he had defined them.

He remembered their late night meetings while discussing the ‘ _Declaration of Rome_ ’ , their happiness when  it was signed. He remembered him and Russia talking about the  _Blue Stream project_ , between glasses of vodka and Rosolio.

Whenever Italy thought of Russia, he only saw  a friend.

_Perhaps the only person he would never have turned his back on even if he had to_ . And only now did Italy realize that his words that ' _I don't want an alliance_ ' was just a lie, an automatic response, which he had developed over the years. If there was anyone with whom he would have liked to enter into an alliance… that was  _his closest friend_ .

"Italo?" Luigi's voice brought him back to reality. "Everything is alright? You got distracted. "

Italy smiled, he had decided. In spite of everything, for once in his life he wanted to make a decisive decision, a decision that his predecessors would never have made.

_ Because they were  damned cowards. _

_But he, the new Italy, he was_ _no_ _coward._

And he had just made his decision.

"Well, if we can't get around America, then we just have to face the situation head on." Italy said, a determined light that made  his eyes sparkle unnaturally as if there really was a fire trapped in  his irises.

The balance was already collapsing.

And Italy was the one who intended to destroy it altogether, tip the scales once and for all.

_ This time he would sit at the Winners’ Table, as a Winner, not as an afterthought. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as I did in the last chapter here are some curiosities ^D^: 
> 
> 1= " _Italo_ ", Italo is the masculine version of the name Italia(which means Italy) which was a name very used during the Fascist Period as a Patriottic name, now is almost in disuse.
> 
> 2=Everything said in the 'flashbacks' about Italy and his relationship with America and with Russia, is absolutely true. And while the relations Italy-America are defined 'Friendly' they have been mostly tense since their foundation, in opposite, Italy-Russia Relations are not only very positive, but have been positive since 1438, which in a Hetalian contest, means that Russia and Italy have been friends for 582 years. 
> 
> 3= " _Rosolio_ ", Rosolio is an Italian liqueur from the Southern part of Italy to be precise, that is made from rose petals. 
> 
> Also the 'I tend not to… attract too much attention.' part in Romolo's dialogue is a pun in italian as 'not attract to much attention' is 'non dare nell'occhio' in Italian, which literally translated woul be somehting like: 'I'm not very noticible in the eye'. And since they were talking about his particular eye color... that was the pun.


	13. Swift Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are changing fast, and America doesn't know how to keep up with it. Meanwhile Russia meets with a good friend of his.

" _What_ ? He… he can't do that. It is American territory. "

These were the words that America had never expected to say, while he was on the phone with the Secretary of Defense, with an emergency call made to him so early that the moon had not even left the sky.

"Sir, it is only as long as the Italian government allows it,  and  the recognition has been revoked." the man on the other end of the call answered, his tone is calm, but America still managed to feel that he was just as stressed as he was by this sudden unexpected change. "They gave us a week-long ultimatum to withdraw our troops from Italian territory…"

"What if we don't?"

"Then… Then  _it would be considered an act of war_ , sir."

_ Why was Italy doing this to him? They were allies,  _ friends _. _

_ Why was Italy chasing his men away? _

So suddenly, as if overnight the calmest and most placid nation in the Mediterranean had decided to take back  his title of autonomous and independent nation.

America had heard from European nations that this 'new' Italy was more unpredictable than the other two, but he did not expect…  _this_ . He did not expect the Italian to be so different from the two who had preceded him.

"Is it possible to withdraw our troops in the time they have given us?" America then asked, hoping the answer was affirmative. He didn't think Italy would try to start a war with him, not when he knew how weak he was in comparison.

Italy could have been many things, but he wasn't suicidal…  _probably_ .

By now he was not sure, not after this sudden and unannounced action.

"Yes, even if only  just "

“I see, what about the equipment in the bases? Do we have the time and the possibilities to recover them or…? " America then asked, even though he had a feeling he knew the answer. Italy knew how to be shrewd when he wanted, –which was rarely, even though… America was thinking more of the other two, the Italy twins… this Italy was completely different, a worrying unknown element–, and he certainly would not have let the chance to take possession of vehicles and armaments that were more advanced, or simply more expensive, than he could afford.

"We can't, they were requisitioned along with the bases."

"I see"

Exactly as he had imagined. Italy was grabbing what was not hers after this sudden decision of his to… drive his troops out of his territory. _But why do it?_

_ Why was he sending away someone America had sent there to protect him? _

_What did he hope to achieve by doing so?_ Other than  giving  him other problems to deal with, as if America didn't already have enough  on his plate , amid  his growing economic debt,  his increasingly discontented citizens. So many had left his lands that America almost thought he should close the borders, even though he knew he couldn't.

It was too authoritative,  _too tyrannical_ a gesture. It was not something he could afford to do, although  _feeling_ so many of his citizens leaving him was certainly not helping with his situation, if only it was making it worse…  _enormously_ .

He had also heard rumors that some  Alaskans had turned to their governor to hold a referendum for their independence, or perhaps they just wanted to return to the nation that founded their cities first. And if the latter was the reason America did not know what to think… _what would he do if_ _one of it was one of his States to abandon_ _him? What would happen to him?_

Sure, America had seen other nations lose some of their territory and not change, but it was different. When Russia had lost the remaining Soviet states this did not affect him because those ' _states_ ' were in fact nations with their own personifications, the same was true for England when it had lost his colonies or France, or even Italy.  _But what would have happened to him?_

Alaska was a part of him, not an independent nation. If the  Alaskans became independent  _what would they take away with them?_ America hoped with all his heart that those rumors were just that…  _rumors_ and that no one was moving to the detriment of him within his own territories.

The Secretary of Defense, meanwhile, continued to speak, telling him how they were planning to, since they could not bring the equipment with them, to empty every single server present in the bases of any intel even remotely important, so that the Italy couldn't get  his hands on it.

America could only agree, giving the man the widest range of motion he could without risking giving him too much freedom. America knew that humans could become cruel when they had too much power and too much freedom to do what he wanted and what seemed to them…  _ necessary _ .

Once an agreement was reached on how to proceed and on what the Secretary had the power or not to do in a situation that in fact almost overflowed into being a matter of international relations and law, America closed the call.

Instead, concentrating on arriving at his personal office, from the living room where he was when the call came.

He couldn't believe it was all going like this, damn wrong. First Cuba trying to use  him , posing as just a worried brother when instead he wanted him to use his power to give him what he wanted and now Italy that suddenly seemed to have gotten the courage  he hadn't had in the last seventy years, and  all to do  _this_ .

Disturb the vague and feeble balance that America had managed to create with difficulty, go against their alliance, their friendship.

_ How dare he? _

_ After everything he had done for him, after he helped him  to  get up  on his feet after World War II…  _

A small part of America, the one that was not influenced by his population, the one that after all was more Alfred than America, whispered to him that in reality he had never done so much for Italy, that after having freed him when Italy was stripped of the role as a member of the Axis and became an Ally, that after that hadn't done anything for him. If not to establish bases and methods to always keep him under control like _a_ _jailer keeping an eye on his prisoner._

America ignored that voice as he arrived at his office and began typing the formalization of the plans he and the Secretary of Defense had discussed.

While doing this, after typing for a good half hour, America let his gaze wander around his office, to chase away the slight sting caused by the fluorescent light from the computer, his gaze fell on the bottle of _Beluga Gold Line vodka_ he had placed in the crystal cabinet placed on the wall in front of his desk.

That bottle reminded him of the fact that he technically still owed him a favor to Russia, and that the Slavic giant had not yet hinted at asking him for anything to repay him.

_ Did he mean to hold it over his head, like a Sword of Damocles? Or the blade of a guillotine held suspended only by the hands of an executor? _

_ Or did he just happen to expect him to already know what he wanted? _

_ No that wasn't Russia's way, he didn't like it when others pretended to know what he wanted. _

With this thought, perhaps the only certainty he had at the moment, America went back to typing.

His mind was a turmoil of emotions and thoughts, because things were changing, too, too fast for him to adjust quickly.

* * *

Italy smiled as he welcomed his oldest friend inside Villa Vargas, his home, after all their alliance had already been made official even if not yet disclosed  to the grand public .

They had decided to keep it hidden for a while. On the other hand, there were already too many things at stake, there was no need for others to know about their business, not until it was necessary.

“ _Ivàn_! How are you my friend?" asked Italy, cheerfully as he went to give him a warm hug as a welcome. Of course the hug was a bit awkward given their height difference, but Russia gave into it anyway, smiling broadly.

“ _All good, all good._ You, Romolo? " he answered, still smiling, as Italy led him into his Villa.

"More than good, everything is…  _perfect_ ." Italy said, his smile  slightly sharp,  slightly dangerous, but not against Russia, but against…  _everything else_ .

"I must say your request for an alliance surprised me." Russia began, a smile still on his lips but his voice dropped a tone, almost a warning, a ' _I know how you treat alliances, and ours will not be like those_ '. But Italy was expecting it so he didn't say anything other than a little nod. "Obviously I only mean it in the most positive sense, in fact I think it was time for our friendship to be brought to the  National level instead of just personal." the Russian continued, his voice happy again as his smile.

“What can I say, _Ivàn_ …? I've wanted this for a long time… but _my two predecessors_ , oh they were just poor cowards. " Italy said, as he invited Russia to take a seat in one of the armchairs in his outside lounge.

"Fortunately you are not like them"

"Exactly." Italy agreed. " See ? You understand me, not like the others who believe that I am the  mix of those two… "

Russia smiled, smiled in that way that was just _too sweet_ and with which he smiled when he tried to be intimidating, the way that clashed with the cold look in his eyes, a minor Nation, one that did not know Russia as well as Italy knew him would have trembled under that gaze. The two Italys would have trembled under that gaze, _Romolo_ _didn’t_.

“Other nations tend to be blind, Romolo. Too busy giving voice to their thoughts to look… to _listen_. "

"Yes you are right." Italy said "We are made of a different  clay  than theirs. We know that sometimes to get the best result, the best thing is to keep quiet instead of  talking and talking, boasting ones successes . "

Russia nodded, the rays of the Roman sun making his eyes sparkle like amethysts, though failing to warm his icy skin. Italy offered the Russian something to drink, Russia accepted, as he let his gaze wander over the view in front of him, beyond the marble parapet, stretched a garden full of flowers of every color, but those that attracted the attention of Russia they were sunflowers, placed in the center of the floral composition of the garden,  they rose above all the others, facing the sun,  tall and healthy.

_ They were really, really wonderful. _

"You like  them ?" Italy asked suddenly, as he handed him the drink, some transparent liqueur that didn't smell like vodka although it looked like it…  _maybe it was grappa?_ Italy seemed to like it.

Russia took the drink before replying “ The  Sunflowers?  _Da_ , they are wonderful, Romolo. "

"Thanks! I hoped you would like them, they are Mammoth sunflowers imported directly from Russia. " Italy said, with a small smile as he leaned against the parapet, holding the glass of grappa in both hands.  His eyes under the sun of his  own territory seemed to really burn with an eternal fire, a fire that Russia remembered having seen only in the eyes of another personification, that of the Roman Empire.

Russia made only a small sound surprised and happy together. "Did you do it for me?"

Italy just chuckled. " _Maybe_ ," he replied, his tone playful,  just a little teasing . "Honestly, I'm just disappointed that I couldn't make my daisy beds look like bears."

"It would have been a bit too obvious then, don't you think?"

Italy laughed. “I don't always have to be subtle,  _Ivàn_ . Sometimes I like to be a little more evident if that means I can be spectacular. "

"Maybe if you were  so more often, others wouldn't underestimate you so much."

“Um, maybe. But honestly I prefer that they underestimate me. " Italy answered, as he turned his face towards his garden. "Being underestimated and ignored means that I can do what I want, without others putting me in their sights."

Russia nodded  slightly at his words, letting a comfortable silence fall between them, while he sipped some of the grappa that Italy had given him, it was sweeter than what he remembered.  He should have asked Italy what  its name was then, his sisters might have liked it.

_Maybe he could have given it to Ukraine, as a small gift to be forgiven for breaking_ _her_ _neck._

"Hey, Ivàn, tell me… the first time we met, would you  have ever  thought that it would end like this?" Italy suddenly asked, his tone was distracted as if Italy were immersed in his thoughts, perhaps memories, and also much softer than Russia had ever heard.

It seemed more the tone in which he addressed his brothers (Seborga and San Marino) than what he had always heard him use with others.

"Well, the first time I met your Nation, I met Feliciano and he was never the type to make alliances with me, maybe trade deals, but a real  _Alliance_ … no, it wasn't his way of doing things." Russia replied, Italy turned to him with a snap. And  now the placidity had left his face, there was fury in that expression, and Italy had pressed a hand against the marble parapet so much that it cracked. That expression, that obviously aggressive bearing were the thing that most distinguished the New Italy from the other two, this Italy was…  _the_ _mix_ _of everything that had liked Russia the first time he had seen Italy, before Feliciano and Romano they lost sight of what they were_ . Russia smiled in the face of all that aggression. “If you are referring to the first time I met you, then the answer is:  _yes_ . I understood it from the first time I saw you that you weren't like the other two. That you had the courage that they lacked. " a little  pause . “You and I are made of the same thing. Old Empires that were just waiting for the right moment… "

Italy smiled, dangerous, sharp as the blade of the knife he hid in his boot, the fire that had once devoured Rome burning in his eyes. This Italy was unpredictable,  a wild card, and Russia  couldn’t  wait to see what he would do. "The right time to hold the world in  our fingers." Italy said, his tone low and full of dark promises, so full of darkness that it seemed to be already  _dripping_ with the blood that Italy wanted to shed.

Russia smiled, raised his glass as a toast to those words, and drank the last bit of grappa that was left in one gulp.

Between America and Italy, Russia  didn’t know who he wanted to see first lower  their mask in front of others. In any case it would have been a show.

Perhaps all three of them would have lowered  their masks together, in an epochal twist that would have marked  History forever.

After all,  _God loved the Trinity_ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the chapter guys! (Today is my birthday and I decided to celebrate it by writing today, so really hope you like it ^D^)
> 
> Little note:   
> " _God loves the Trinity_ " is a Russian saying, which is: _Бог тро́ицу лю́бит._ in Russian. Which is basically the Russian version of the English saying: 'Good things come in three' basically.


End file.
